MEN  AND 

BOOKS 

AND  CITIES 


ROBERT 
CORTE  S 
HOLLIDAY 


I 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES, 
EGBERT  CORTES  HOLLIDAY 


By  ROBERT  CORTES  HOLLIDAY 

MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 
BROOME  STREET  STRAWS 
WALKING-STICK  PAPERS 
PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 
BOOTH  TARKINGTON 

THE  MEMOIR  TO: 

JOYCE  KILMER;  POEMS, 
ESSAYS  AND  LETTERS 


MEN  AND  BOOKS 
AND  CITIES 


BY 

ROBERT  CORTES  HCUJDAY 


From  quiet  homes  and  first  beginning, 

Out  to  the  undiscovered  ends, 
There's  nothing  worth  the  wear  of  winning, 

But  laughter  and  the  love  of  friends. 

BELLOC. 


NEW  >tajr  YORK 

GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1920 , 
By  George  H.  Doran  Company 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


TO 
MEREDITH  NICHOLSON 

WHOSE   EXCELLENT   GOOD   NATURE 
ENABLED   HIM  TO   LISTEN  TO 

MOST   OF  THIS   GOSSIP 
BEFORE   IT  WAS  WRITTEN 

BREAD   AND   MEAT  BETWEEN  US 
IN  OUR  HOME  TOWN 


(i  73  4  82 


AN  INDICTMENT 
OR  FOREWORD 

This  rambling  hotchpotch  of  irresponsible 
comment  was  conceived  in  sin  and  grew  (to  its 
present  state  of  deformity)  without  benefit  of 
any  discipline  whatever.  It  has  known  no  home 
but  the  hotel,  the  street,  and  the  smoking-car; 
no  parent  but  a  wastrel  and  a  vagabond. 

That  the  culprit  stands  before  you  a  monstros 
ity  in  essay  form  is  small  wonder.  That  it  will 
come  to  any  good  in  the  world  is  hardly  prob 
lematical. 

Upon  its  appearance  in  the  pages  of  THE 
BOOKMAN  the  author  of  its  being  (for  reasons 
best  known  to  himself)  sought  to  conceal  his 
identity  under  the  alias  of  Murray  Hill. 

R.  C.  H. 

New  York,  1920. 


[vii] 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTEB  PAGE 

AN  INDICTMENT  OR  FOREWORD     ....  vii 

I    I  STAGE  MY  FIRST  DEATH  SCENE     ...  13 

II    MEREDITH  NICHOLSON  AND  A  CAMEL    .     .  29 

III  THE  SOUL  AND  THE  TRAP-DRUMMER     .     .  43 

IV  WHY    SHAKESPEARE'S    AUDIENCE    DIDN'T 

WALK  OUT  ON  HIM 59 

V    BOOTH  TARKINGTON  DISCUSSES  THE  COS 
MOS     71 

VI    RlLEY  AND  A  COLORED  BARBER    ....  84 

VII    BOYHOOD  OF  THE  HERO 97 

VIII    MILTONIC   ANGELS,   NOT   HERRICK   BLOS 
SOMS   112 

IX    THE  AUTHOR  GOES  WOOL  GATHERING  .     .  127 

X    THE  EFFEMINACY  OF  PAJAMAS      .     .     .     .  142 
XI    A     FAREWELL    FROM    WILLIAM    MARION 

REEDY 155 

XII    MRS.  JOYCE  KILMER  AT  WALNUT  HILLS    .  172 

XIII  E.  V.  LUCAS  FOOLS  CHICAGO 190 

XIV  MATERNITY  AND  CLIMATE 206 

XV    To  SAN  FRANCISCO:     A  NEW  WALKING- 
STICK  PAPER 214 

XVI    A  PAL  OF  JACK  LONDON 232 

XVII    I  BECOME  A  MOVIE  "DIRECTOR"     ...  245 

[ix] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 


MEN   AND   BOOKS 
AND   CITIES 

CHAPTER  I 

I  STAGE  MY  FIKST  DEATH  SCENE 

YOU  see,  it  is  like  this.  And  a  tale,  I  prom 
ise  you,  you  shall  hear.  •  | 
It  was  decided  in  the  office  of  THE  BOOKMAN 
that  Murray  Hill  had  lost  his  kick,  jBy  over 
much  sitting  at  a  desk  had  he  grown  old.  He 
should  go,  like  one  Conrad,  in  quest  of  his  youth. 
He  should  return  again,  for  a  space,  to  the  life 
to  which  he  was  bred;  be  again  (for  a  time),  as 
of  old,  a  delighted  child  alike  of  great  streets 
and  mean  streets,  a  rover  who  goes  where  the 
wind  follows  after,  a  spirit  with  no  abiding  city. 
His  art  was  not  to  be  literature,  but  the  supreme 
art  of  all — to  look  with  entertainment  (and  with 
charity)  upon  the  world,  and  to  have  frank 
speech  with  all  manner  of  men.  Such  was  the 
wisdom  of  THE  BOOKMAN  office;  and  greater 
wisdom  have  I  seldom  seen. 

[13] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

To  begin,  then,  with  a  tribute  to  human  hon 
esty:  I  one  time  owned  a  very  large  kit-bag,  a 
very  costly  kit-bag,  and  a  very  handsome  one. 
The  very  thing  would  this  have  been  to  transport 
all  that  I  would  have  need  of  in  my  wanderings. 
But,  alas  !  on  an  evil  day  it  was  stolen,  with  many 
things  of  value  to  me  which  it  contained.  Now, 
to  run  after  a  trunk  on  wanderings  —  one  might 
as  well  take*  along  a  wife.  And  it  is  one  of  the 

..prime  secrete  t>£  living  (so  that  one  may  say  when 
:Ke  coihes  To  "die  ;*V  Well,  I've  had  an  interesting 

;  3iF££*.)'tfiat.bfte  'should  never  duplicate  what  he 


had  before.  If  a  man  has  owned  an  Airedale 
and  lost  him,  he  should  get  a  Police  dog,  or  a 
Bull;  if  a  man  has  loved  a  blonde  and  she  has 
divorced  him,  he  should  take  to  himself  a  bru 
nette.  So  it  was  another  kit-bag  would  never  do. 
What  then?  It  hath  been  said,  seek  ye  and  ye 
shall  find.  As  for  me  it  is  as  told  in  that  very 
fine  poem  of  Hilaire  Belloc,  "The  South  Coun 
try": 

A  lost  thing  could  I  never  find, 

Nor  a  broken  thing  mend  ; 
And  I  fear  I  shall  be  all  alone, 

When  I  come  toward  the  end. 
[14] 


I  STAGE  MY  FIRST  DEATH  SCENE 

Seek  I,  and  I  find  not.  Trouble  yourself  nowhat 
about  the  matter;  go  jauntily  on  your  way  and 
the  gods  pursue  you  with  their  gifts  in  out 
stretched  hand.  Take  Christmas  presents;  you 
know  not  what  to  give.  Never  mind,  at  the  elev 
enth  hour  desperation  will  save  you,  and  do  you 
proud;  a  man  is  never  so  nimble  in  his  mind  as 
when  he  is  desperate.  Take  words;  you  strain 
for  the  right  word  to  turn  a  thought — and  con 
tinually  it  eludes  you.  Cease  your  straining  and 
go  to  shaving.  Let  your  thoughts  be  like  a  rill 
of  water,  reflecting  in  reminiscence  the  sunlight 
and  shadows  of  your  life.  Suddenly  you  pause, 
your  razor  poised  before  your  nose.  It  has  come 
to  you!  The  word!  However,  I  did  not  pur 
pose  to  speak  to  you  of  philosophy.  This  is  not 
a  treatise,  but  a  chronicle. 

I  put  my  mind  at  peace.  I  knew  that  at  the 
time  appointed  I  should  be  prepared.  "For  all 
things  work  together  for  good  to  them  that  love 
God."  And  so  (as  ever)  it  was. 

Was  I  not  hurrying  along  Forty-second  Street 
to  get  that  cane  (the  one  with  the  stag  handle 
and  gold  band)  which  I  had  left  to  be  repaired? 
And  did  not  Fortune  cause  me  to  turn  my  head, 
inexplicably,  ever  so  little  to  the  left?  And  did 

[15] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

I  not  see  in  a  window  that  which  the  Force  which 
created  and  operates  the  universe  had  determined 
aeons  and  aeons  ago  I  should  take  with  me  as 
my  carryall  on  my  travels?  I  did. 

It  was  a  double-barreled  suitcase  with  an  ac 
cordion-like  side  capable  of  considerable  projec 
tion  outward.  I  went  in  and  I  said  to  the  man 
there  in  charge:  "May  I  look  at  that  suitcase 
in  your  window?"  "Certainly,"  he  replied.  I 
said — I  never  quibble  about  anything  (friend, 
do  not  let  Death  find  you  stalled  somewhere 
quibbling,  but  valiantly  on  your  way) — I  said: 
"I  will  take  this  suitcase;  how  much  is  it?" 

"That  suitcase,  sir,"  he  said,  "is  worth  seventy- 
five  dollars."  "Good!"  I  replied.  "Have  my 
name  put  on  it  at  once,  on  both  ends."  For  I 
am  proud  of  my  name  ( I  should  like  to  have  had 
it  on  both  sides  of  the  suitcase  as  well) ;  it  is  a 
high-sounding  name.  To  me,  it  rings  out  like 
those  gorgeous  words  of  Mr.  St.  Ives :  "When  I 
can't  please  a  woman,  hang  me  in  my  cravat!" 

"As  evidently  you  are  not  going  to  give  this 
suitcase  as  a  present,"  said  the  man,  "I  can  make 
you  a  discount  on  it.  It  has  been  in  the  window," 
he  said,  "and  you  see,  Sir,  it  is  a  bit  spotted  by 
the  sun.  This  discount  would  bring  the  price  to 
[16] 


1  STAGE  MY  FIRST  DEATH  SCENE 

sixty-five  dollars."  "Excellent  1"  I  exclaimed; 
"most  admirable,  indeed!" 

"Then,"  said  the  man,  "I  can  make  you  a  still 
further  discount  on  that  suitcase.  Five  dollars 
more  can  come  off  on  account  of " 

"Done!"  I  said,  "whatever  the  reason — I  won't 
let  five  dollars  stand  in  the  way  of  me  and  the 
suitcase." 

It  is  a  splendid  suitcase.  Many  have  admired 
it.  And  it  is  certainly  worth  as  much  as  forty 

dollars. 

******* 

I  leaped  out  of  my  cab  at  the  station.  Not 
many  were  assembled  to  see  me  off.  I  waved 
my  hand  at  the  populace  as  I  boarded  my  train. 
I  sped  away.  In  my  heart  a  lark  was  singing. 

I  dined  with  a  gentleman  whose  name  I  did  not 
catch.  I  talked  in  the  smoker  with  five  persons 
whom  I  had  never  before  seen.  I  slept — and, 
as  always  with  me  on  trains,  it  seemed  to  me  in 
my  dreams  that  throughout  the  night  we  rushed 
through  a  mighty  storm.  I  breakfasted  at  seven, 
at  a  table  together  with  three  gentlemen  who 
could  not  be  drawn  into  conversation. 

It  was  about  half -past  nine  in  the  morning:  I 
became  decidedly  restless.  Also  it  began  to  seem 

[17] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

to  me  that  there  was  some  sort  of  a  bump  in  my 
side,  directly  below  my  lowest  left  rib.  I  altered 
my  position.  The  bump  was  for  a  moment  ap 
parently  taken  by  surprise;  then  it  returned, 
more  pronounced  than  before.  I  shifted  my 
weight  from  side  to  side;  walked  about,  again 
sat  down.  The  bump  expanded.  My  restless 
ness  steadily  increased — mounted  to  a  feverish 
nervousness.  My  mind  became  centered  upon 
the  idea  of  how  long  it  would  be  before  we  should 
reach  Indianapolis  and  I  could  get  off  that 
train.  Once  off  and  out  into  the  air  I  felt  that 
I  should  soon  come  around.  Half  an  hour  be 
fore  the  train  reached  the  station  I  was  in  the 
vestibule  waiting  at  the  door. 

I  succeeded  in  holding  myself  sufficiently  in 
hand  to  get  the  suitcase  checked.  I  had  no  im 
mediate  plan  further  than  to  escape  into  the 
open  air.  I  started  up  Illinois  Street. 

The  bump  had  spread  until  now  it  was  like  a 
board  pressing  fearfully  across  the  front  of  me 
from  the  bottom  of  my  ribs  to  the  beginning  of 
my  legs.  Particularly  did  something  tighten 
with  awful  force  about  my  heart.  Lightning- 
like  pains  shot  through  my  chest.  My  legs 
began  to  waver,  and  felt  extraordinarily  light. 
[18] 


I  STAGE  MY  FIRST  DEATH  SCENE 

My  breath  I  could  get  only  in  gasps.  My  hands 
shook  with  a  violence  that  was  appalling.  I  felt 
that  I  could  retain  consciousness  only  a  few  mo 
ments  longer — if  so  long. 

I  saw  a  dairy-lunch,  staggered  in,  sank  upon  a 
chair.  Perhaps  a  little  rest — maybe  I  should  re 
vive  sufficiently  to  think  out  a  plan.  I  got  a 
passing  waiter  to  bring  me  a  cup  of  black  coffee. 
My  hand  shook  so  the  liquid  splashed  with  burn 
ing  heat  upon  my  legs.  I  tried  to  attract  the 
attention,  one  after  another,  of  several  men  not 
far  from  me.  One  gave  me  a  cold  stare.  An 
other  nodded  and  smiled  at  me  pleasantly,  a  third 
got  up,  apparently  with  considerable  reluctance, 
and  came  slowly  before  me.  As  well  as  I  could 
gasp  it,  I  asked  him  if  he  would  not  get  a  doctor 
for  me.  He  showed  what  seemed  to  me  amaz 
ingly  little  concern  for  my  situation.  Indeed, 
he  seemed  to  be  more  than  a  little  annoyed  at  me 
for  having  got  him  in  what  he  appeared  to  regard 
as  a  troublesome  (and  an  embarrassing)  posi 
tion.  After  some  hesitation,  however,  he  did 
consent  to  stroll  out  the  door.  I  don't  know 
where  he  went,  he  was  gone  a  very  short  while 
• — I  knew  this  even  though  every  moment  seemed 
to  me  half  an  hour.  Upon  his  return  he  an- 

[19] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

nounced,  in  a  manner  which  clearly  indicated  his 
decided  relief  at  being  so  well  out  of  such  a  nui 
sance  of  a  matter,  that  "every  one  seemed  to  be 
out."  He  hastily  added  that  there  was  a  drug 
store  across  the  street  about  half-way  down  the 
block  where  they  could  probably  fix  me  up,  and 
quickly  made  his  getaway. 

This  bunch  in  this  cheap  lunchroom  were,  of 
course,  the  less  civilized  of  the  community.  They 
were,  as  I  felt  with  a  good  deal  of  rage,  the 
yokels,  the  boors,  members  of,  so  to  put  it,  the 
peasant  class  of  the  Middle  West.  I  had  had 
occasion  before,  on  earlier  visits,  to  experience  a 
slight  taste  of  their  provincial  character,  that 
disposition  to  spit  out  like  a  cat,  or  to  draw  with 
in  (figuratively  speaking)  a  turtle-like  shell,  at 
the  approach  of  an  alien  animal.  And  now,  min 
gled  with  my  other  anguish,  was  a  surging  rage 
at  the  narrow,  stupid,  inhuman  density  of  these 
men,  a  rage  which  somewhat  included  the  whole 
of  their  little  part  of  the  world.  I  knew  (and 
I  know)  that  had  I  fallen  into  this  dire  predica 
ment  anywhere  among  the  scum  of  New  York 
City  (for  I  know  the  scum  of  New  York  City 
like  a  brother)  willing  hands  and  friendly  hearts 
would  have  succored  me.  I  might  have  been 
[20] 


I  STAGE  MY  FIRST  DEATH  SCENE 

robbed,  as  numerous  times  I  have  been,  but  I 
should  have  been  known  as  a  man  in  distress,  and 
soon  some  rough,  or  some  professional  bed,  had 
been  mine. 

I  grew  no  better  sitting  in  that  broad-arm 
chair.  I  arose  and  tried  to  steady  myself  on  my 
cane.  Again  (and  it  was  my  only  thought)  it 
seemed  that  I  must  fight  my  way  to  the  open 
air.  When  I  found  it,  it  embraced  me  like  a 
cooling  bath.  Nevertheless,  tighter  than  ever 
was  clutched  my  heart  and  all  my  inner  organs, 
and  my  legs  and  hands  shook  like  leaves  in  the 
wind.  A  thought  came  to  me :  in  the  next  block 
south,  down  the  way  I  had  come,  was  a  first-rate 
hotel — I  would  try  to  get  there.  Could  I  make 
it?  I  didn't  know.  I  retained  consciousness  now 
by  sheer  exercise  of  will.  In  another  second, 
maybe,  I  would  fall  into  darkness,  and  as  for 
this  world,  it  would  be  with  me  as  my  club,  The 
Players  (quoting  from  Will),  says  on  the  obitu 
ary  cards  it  pastes  on  its  wall:  "The  rest  is 
silence." 

That  hour  which  awaits  us  all  I  knew  had  come 
to  me.  Should  I  awake  to  continue  the  play 
upon  another  stage?  Curious  it  is:  this  thought 
was  hardly  in  my  mind  at  all.  I  am  afraid  I 

[21] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

shall  seem  a  very  irreverent  man — and  yet  whena 
as  well  as  I  knew,  Death  has  been  from  me  far, 
I  have  not  been  wholly  without  reverence:  I 
have  thought  much  and  with  awe  of  the  Creator 
of  all  things.  I  have  worshiped  the  beauty  God 
has  made  on  this  planet;  I  have  tried  not  to  bear 
false  witness;  I  have  paid  my  debts  (when  I  had, 
or  could  get,  the  money) ;  and  I  have  loved  my 
neighbor,  and  have  coveted  not  his  wife.  What 
ever,  however,  I  have  been,  I  am  here  a  conscien 
tious  artist  weaving  a  veracious  chronicle.  I  am 
sorry  to  have  to  say  that  in  this  awful  hour  I  re 
pented  not  a  whit  of  my  sins,  which  have  been 
grievous  and  many. 

Now  there  is  a  popular  idea,  an  idea  which  has 
persisted  for  centuries,  and  which  is  practically 
universal,  that  when  a  man  knowingly  comes  to 
die,  with  or  without  the  support  of  religion,  he 
is  horribly  afraid.  Speaking  for  myself  only 
(but  I  do  not  regard  myself  as  braver  than,  if 
as  brave  as,  most  men),  I  have  found  this  idea 
a  fallacy.  I  have  to  say  that  in  this  dreadful 
hour,  the  feeling  in  my  mind  was  not  fear  but 
anger. 

I  was  angered  that,  at  the  very  outset,  my  ex 
cursion,  the  food  for  growth  which  in  my  roving 
[22] 


I  STAGE  MY  FIRST  DEATH  SCENE 

commission  I  should  have  reaped  from  further 
knowledge  of  the  ways  of  men,  was  to  be 
snatched  from  me;  and  in  the  back  of  my  head 
was  the  strange  thought:  a  deuce  of  a  character 
they  will  think  you,  back  at  THE  BOOKMAN  office, 
to  go  and  die  on  the  first  leg  of  your  business 
journey.  All  this  which  I  have  told  at  length, 
of  course,  flashed  through  my  mind  in  seconds. 
To  the  end  I  was  quite  resigned.  I  said  (but 
without  bitterness)  to  myself:  Well,  you  have  in 
your  life  drunk  an  ocean  of  rum  (and  a  consid 
erable  amount  of  it  pretty  bad  rum  at  that)  and 
smoked  several  hundred  acres  of  tobacco;  and 
this  is  what  you  get  for  it — heart  failure. 

I  had,  however,  a  decided  disinclination  to 
dying  in  the  gutter,  probably  because  it  had  been 
for  so  long  prophesied  that  I  would  die  in  the 
gutter.  My  determination  to  die  under  a  roof, 
I  think  it  was  that  kept  me  up.  My  mind  was 
gone,  almost;  and  my  knees  smote  one  against 
the  other;  but  I  was  nearly  within  reach  of  the 
entrance  to  the  hotel. 

Now  there  is  a  very  beautiful  cemetery  in  this 
city  where  I  was  born.  In  my  boyhood  it  was 
one  of  the  show  places  of  the  town.  It  is  called 
Crown  Hill.  And  there  are  gathered  the  bones 

[23] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

of  my  fathers.  I  was  further  enraged.  As  I 
stumbled  along  I  observed  a  string  of  street-cars 
passing.  My  impulse  was  to  fire  my  stick 
through  a  window  of  one  of  them.  They  were, 
all  of  them,  labeled  "Crown  Hill."  This,  I  said 
to  myself,  is  a  devil  of  a  way  to  say  to  one,  Wel 
come  Home ! 

******* 

This  hotel  bears  the  beautiful  name  of  an  Eng 
lish  river — though  I  believe  it  was  named  after 
an  old  family  here. 

In  the  lobby  I  sank  into  a  chair  with  a  tall 
back  and  upholstered  in  some  rich  stuff  resem 
bling  a  tapestry,  and  of  a  bell-boy  nearby  I 
demanded  the  house  physician.  This  bell-boy 
displayed  something  of  the  same  reluctance  to 
be  a  party  to  unusual  and  disagreeable  proceed 
ings  as  that  manifested  by  my  friend  of  the  res 
taurant.  His  job,  however,  being  to  obey,  he 
probably  didn't  see  anything  else  to  do  but  go 
to  the  desk  and  report  the  matter.  There  he 
evidently  discussed  the  situation  with  the  clerk 
for  a  considerable  while.  Finally  he  returned  to 
ask  my  name.  My  ability  to  speak  with  any 
thing  like  intelligibility  was  becoming  worse  all 
the  while. 
[24] 


I  STAGE  MY  FIRST  DEATH  SCENE 

It  seemed  to  me  a  lifetime  but  it  was  probably 
only  a  few  minutes,  before  the  doctor  arrived  at 
my  side.  He  was  a  large,  portly  man,  with  a 
hearty,  corn-belt  manner.  I  struggled  to  my 
feet,  swayed  and  tottered,  and  the  pressure  on 
my  innards  was  terrific.  He  said:  "I  can't  ex 
amine  you  here,  we  must  go  upstairs.  Have  you 
a  room?"  I  replied  that  I  had  not,  but  that  I 
was  most  eager  to  obtain  one.  Then  ensued  a 
wrangle  of  several  minutes  between  the  clerk, 
the  doctor,  and  myself.  Owing  to  the  violent 
shaking  of  my  hands,  I  could  no  more  register 
than  I  could  have  flown  out  of  the  door,  risen  in 
the  air,  without  airplane  or  angel's  wings,  and 
circled  round  the  very  tall  shaft  of  the  "monu 
ment"  which  they  have  here — that  is,  the  impos 
ing  monument  erected  to  the  memory  of  the 
Indiana  Soldiers  and  Sailors  of  the  Civil  War, 
which  stands  at  the  heart  of  the  city  in  the  center 
of  the  "circle,"  a  ring-around  affair  which  in 
London  would  be  called  a  "circus,"  as  Piccadilly 
Circus.  The  clerk  was  strongly  averse  to  put 
ting  to  bed  in  this  hotel  a  man  who  was  not,  in 
the  police  term,  on  the  blotter.  Finally,  I  got 
him  with  an  upper-cut:  I  told  him,  in  weird 
gasps,  that  it  would  be  better  for  the  business 

[25] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

interests  of  the  house  if  I  should  die  obscurely 
upstairs  in  bed  than  if  I  should  die  publicly  here 
before  the  desk  in  the  lobby.  The  doctor  was 
permitted  to  register  for  me. 

He  half  carried  me  up  (my  feet  shuffled  along 
the  floor) ;  I  fell  on  the  bed  and  he  undressed  me. 
I  asked  him  (with  an  unconcern  in  his  pronounce 
ment  which,  looking  back  now,  decidedly  amazes 
me)  if  this  seizure  or  whatever  it  was,  was  fatal. 
He  replied,  in  a  very  kindly  voice,  that  he  "hoped 
not."  After  he  had  examined,  as  best  he  could, 
the  works  inside  of  me,  he  declared  against  my 
assertion  that  there  was  something  violently  and 
organically  wrong  with  my  heart.  He  denied 
my  declaration  that  there  was  within  me  a  huge 
bump  at  the  point  of  my  lowest  left  rib.  I  asked 
him  then  if  he  would  please  explain  to  me  why  I 
felt,  with  severe  intensity,  a  huge  bump  there; 
why  my  heart  had  gone  on  a  jamboree;  why  I 
couldn't  get  my  breath ;  was  a  spectacular  wreck 
generally,  and  couldn't  live  more  than  a  few  mo 
ments  longer. 

He  said  that  what  I  had  was  acute  indigestion, 

gastritis,  or  something  like  that,  that  at  any  rate, 

I  was  as  filled  with  gas  as  a  balloon,  and  that 

this  gas  was  pressing  heavily  on  all  my  inner 

[26] 


I  STAGE  MY  FIRST  DEATH  SCENE 

organs;  that  further,  though  such  attacks  occa 
sionally  prove  fatal,  he  thought  I  had  passed,  or 
would  soon  pass,  the  crisis  of  mine.  I  was  given 
drugs  and  ordered  to  stay  in  bed  until  the  next 
day,  when  this  large  gentleman  of  the  hearty, 
corn-belt  manner  thought  I  should  be  all  right 
again.  He  said  he  would  be  within  call  through 
out  the  day,  by  telephone  at  my  bed,  and  after  a 
settlement  of  our  account,  he  withdrew  from  my 
presence,  forever.  I  liked  the  man;  he  was  a 
genuine  home-grown  melon,  with  the  real  juice 
all  there;  and  his  society  was  the  first  thing  I 
had  met  since  my  arrival  in  my  native  city  which 
restored  to  me  anything  like  regard  for  Indiana. 
After  several  hours  in  bed  my  trembling  large 
ly  passed,  my  hand  shook  then  little  more  than  if 
this  had  been  merely  the  result  of  my  having 
smoked  too  much  the  night  before;  the  pressure 
on  my  lower  front,  though  very  strong,  was  not 
so  heart-gripping  as  it  had  been,  and  I  breathed 
easily  enough.  I  then  became  nervous  in  an 
other  way.  By  being  all  alone  in  this  room,  with 
nobody  in  the  town — that  I  knew — knowing  that 
I  was  here,  got  on  my  nerves.  Certainly  I  could 
have  telephoned  some  one,  but  curiously  enough 
I  didn't  think  of  that.  Also  my  mind  was  going 

[27] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

round  in  a  ring  about  this  damnable  situation — 
I  should,  I  thought,  probably  be  laid  up  here  for 
months.  And  I  felt  that  if  I  could  get  out,  if 
only  to  stand  on  the  corner  and  view  the  spectacle 
of  the  life  and  movement  of  the  city,  this  would 
do  me  a  world  of  good. 

I  got  up,  dressed,  and  cautiously  tried  out 
walking  slowly  up  and  down  the  room.  It  wasn't 
easy  going,  but  still  nothing  alarming  happened. 
Then  a  strange  idea  took  hold  of  my  mind.  I 
had  a  hunch  that  if  I  got  close  to  the  window  I 
should  jump  out,  and  crash  on  the  sidewalk  nine 
floors  below.  So  in  my  perambulations  I  steered 
clear  of  the  window.  At  length  I  unlocked  my 
door  and  made  my  way  to  the  elevator.  I  pro 
gressed  along  the  lobby  without  disaster,  though 
I  did  feel  a  growing  tightening  within.  Then 
at  the  front  entrance  to  the  hotel  I  suddenly  had 
another  attack.  A  bell-boy  got  me  back  to  bed. 


[28] 


CHAPTER  II 

MEREDITH  NICHOLSON  AND  A  CAMEL 

I  SLEPT  reasonably  well.  In  the  morning  I 
made  another  try,  moving  along  the  street  at 
the  rate  of  an  ill-preserved  man  of  ninety.  At 
Washington  Street,  I  came  to  another  good  hotel, 
where  I  entered  the  barber-shop  for  a  much- 
needed  shave.  There  is,  of  course,  that  old  story 
— which  reflects  the  sentiments  of  many — of  the 
gentleman  who,  when  asked  by  the  barber  how 
he  would  have  his  hair  cut,  thundered:  "In  si 
lence!"  That  attitude  toward  barbers,  however, 
has  never  been  my  notion.  Barbers  have  always 
been  newspapers,  of  an  excellent  kind ;  and  since 
their  greatest  rival  in  this  role,  the  bartender, 
has  gone  out,  a  man,  I  think,  owes  it  to  himself 
to  cultivate  the  conversation  of  barbers  as  much 
as  possible. 

So,  to  put  the  barber  in  a  communicative  frame 
of  mind,  I  told  him  the  story  of  my  death  and 
resurrection.  This  interested  him  greatly.  He 
told  me  in  turn  how  sick  he  himself  had  been  a 

[29] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

year  ago;  what  an  unhealthy  winter  they  had 
just  had  in  Indianapolis ;  and,  drifting  off  from 
this  subject,  he  took  up  a  discussion  of  politics, 
and  gave  me  a  general  view  of  the  local  situation 
— from  his  point  of  view.  Indeed,  before  I  was 
shaved  and  massaged,  and  shampooed,  I  knew 
more  about  recent  local  conditions  than  I  should 
have  known  had  I  been  reading  the  home  papers 
for  the  past  month.  I  had  noticed  that  the  bar 
room  at  the  hotel  where  I  was  stopping,  and  the 
bar-room  in  this  hotel,  had  been  converted  into 
bright  little  affairs  labeled  "Coffee  Shops."  I 
commented  on  this  fact  to  the  barber.  Yes,  he 
said,  there  was  nothing  doing  in  the  way  of  "sa 
loons"  in  Indianapolis  any  more.  But,  he  added, 
"the  bootleggers  were  so  thick  they  had  to  wear 
badges  to  keep  from  trying  to  sell  the  stuff  to 
each  other."  Never,  my  friend,  neglect  the  high 
ly  valuable  conversation  of  barbers. 

I  was  but  a  short  way,  as  I  remembered  it, 
from  the  office  of  Meredith  Nicholson;  so  I 
thought  that,  exercising  extreme  caution  in  my 
movements,  I  would  try  to  get  there.  The  things 
which  bothered  me  most  were  the  street  cars  and 
motor  cars:  I  could  not  well  hurry  in  front  of 
one,  and  I  had  a  distaste  to  collapsing  there. 
[30] 


NICHOLSON  AND  A  CAMEL 

However,  I  made  the  building  in  safety.  There 
I  ran  up  against  a  snag.  This  was  occasioned  by 
the  secrecy  which  Mr.  Nicholson,  in  common  ap 
parently  with  all  other  Indianapolis  writers, 
maintains  about  the  place  where  he  does  his  writ 
ing.  His  name  is  not  on  the  hall-directory  of  the 
bank  building  where  he  works.  I  knew  from 
former  experience  that  it  was  not  on  the  door  of 
his  office.  The  elevator  "starter"  and  the  eleva 
tor  men  are  so  well  "fixed"  that  they  know  him 
not. 

The  "starter"  suggested  that  I  might  tele 
phone  him.  But  how  was  I  to  telephone  him 
when  he  has  no  number  given  in  the  book?  So 
I  decided  to  make  a  try,  as  best  I  could  from 
my  rather  dim  recollection  of  the  location  of  his 
room.  My  guess,  luckily,  came  down  heads  the 
first  throw. 

I  gave  the  mystic  rap,  which  I  recalled.  Tall 
and  straight,  square-shouldered  and  solidly 
made,  chest  held  well  forward,  head  held  firmly 
back,  countenance  sculptured  somewhat  in  the 
large  mold  of  the  bust  of  a  Roman  emperor, 
much  dignity  (I  suspect  unconscious),  much 
quiet  self-possession,  much  courtesy  (in  which 
are  blended  naturalness  and  formality),  much 

'[31] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

kindliness  of  heart  apparent,  and  much  (sub 
dued)  native  friendliness  toward  mankind,  mod 
estly,  but  quite  correctly,  dressed  in  dark  colors 
-Nick! 

Replying  to  my  comment  on  the  difficulties  of 
finding  him,  he  remarked  that  the  other  day  he 
heard  that  a  man  had  been  offering  five  dol 
lars  for  his  office  address — though,  he  added,  he 
believed  everybody  in  town  knew  where  he  was. 
Said  he  had  been  expecting  some  one.  Knock 
at  the  door:  reporter.  A  statement  sought  on 
the  local  political  situation.  Given.  ' 'Don't 
quote  me,"  said  Nick. 

Telephone  rang:  something  about  some  mo 
tion-picture  stuff  he  was  doing.  As  to  the  pic 
tures:  what  a  possibility  they  presented!  And 
how  rawly  they  had  been  developed  as  yet!  Sup 
pose  Homer  ("whether  he  was  a  man  or  a  syn 
dicate")  had  worked  for  "the  screen,"  and  had 
been  able  to  produce  his  tale  as  he  wanted  it, 
what  a  tremendous  and  live  thing  to-day  would 
be  "the  greatest  dime  novel  ever  written" — the 
Odyssey!  And  Milton,  if  he  had  created  "Para 
dise  Lost"  as  a  "movie"!  Rather  stunning  no 
tions,  I  felt. 

But,  of  course,  we  should  not,  then,  have 
[32] 


NICHOLSON  AND  A  CAMEL 

these  things  as  the  great  monuments,  that  they 
are,  of  literature.  Indeed,  he  seemed  to  be  rather 
on,  the  fence  in  regard  to,  so  to  say,  these  two 
forms  of  art — "movies"  and  letters;  and  deplored, 
wagging  his  head,  the  passing  of  "reading 
times,"  when  our  fathers  and  our  mothers  used 
to  sit  at  home  in  the  evenings  and  read,  Dickens 
and  Hawthorne  and  Thackeray,  "aloud  to  one 
another." 

As  I  was  suffering  all  this  while  a  good  deal 
inside,  came  up  the  subject  of  my  dramatic  ar 
rival  in  town.  Nicholson  was  decidedly  more  ex 
ercised  about  the  matter  than  I  had  been  at  any 
time  throughout  it,  in  fact,  considerably  excited. 
Why  hadn't  I  let  him  know?  Any  time  of  the 
day  or  night!  And  where  was  it  I  was?  Why! 
man  that  owned  that  place  was  a  great  friend  of 
his.  Immediately  got  him  on  the  wire.  Gave 
him  what  is  commonly  called  "a  talking  to." 
Told  him,  with  much  vigor,  a  lot  of  guff:  that 
I  (yes,  your  own  Murray  Hill)  was  "America's 
leading  essayist,"  and  was  "conferring  a  great 
distinction"  on  his  place  by  "condescending  to 
stop  there."  Couldn't  have  any  common,  ordi 
nary,  hotel  physician.  Must  have  everything 
best  in  the  house.  Or,  well,  the  country  would 

[33] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

rise  up  against  him,  or  something  like  that. 
Scared  the  poor  chap,  I  guess,  into  believing  all 
this  was  so. 

And  now  we  must  get  the  best  advice  obtain 
able  on  this  matter.  So  round  we  would  go  to 
Dr.  Carleton  B.  McCulloch.  Now,  this  Dr.  Mc- 
Culloch  may  be  known  as  any  one  of  a  number 
of  highly  distinguished  things.  He  may  be 
known  as  a  physician  to  the  literati  of  Indiana: 
he  was  Riley's  physician,  and  he  has  long  "doc 
tored"  Nicholson  and  Tarkington.  He  may  be 
known  as  Lieutenant-Colonel  McCulloch,  who 
six  weeks  after  war  was  declared  between  the 
United  States  and  Germany  abandoned  the 
"largest  practice  in  Indianapolis"  (according  to 
Tarkington)  to  enlist  as  a  captain,  and  who  after 
eighteen  months  of  service  in  France  was  deco 
rated  by  the  French  government  with  the  Croix 
de  Guerre  for  evacuating  a  hospital  under  fire. 
Or  as  so  charming  and  witty  a  gentleman  that 
Hugh  Walpole  declared  him  to  be  "the  most  in 
teresting  man"  he  had  met  in  America.  Or  (at 
the  present  writing)  as  a  candidate  for  the  Dem 
ocratic  nomination  for  Governor  of  Indiana. 

Now,  I  have  always  been  exceedingly  reluct 
ant  to  butt  in  on  the  solemn  concerns  of  states- 
[34] 


NICHOLSON  AND  A  CAMEL 

men  to  tell  them  that  I  was  not  feeling  very  well. 
But  Nick  dragged  me  along.  On  the  way,  I 
learned  that  at  about  the  time  he  wrote  his  first 
novel,  he  had  suffered  a  seizure  very  similar  to 
mine,  then  had  (as  he  believed)  chummed  with 
the  Reaper  for  a  number  of  years,  but  as  these 
had  now  grown  to  be  twenty  or  more,  and  he 
had  not  died  yet,  he  had  become  rather  accus 
tomed  to  the  situation,  and  did  not  mind  it  much 
any  more.  He  declared,  however,  that  I  had 
him  all  wrong  (in  an  account  of  him  I  one  time 
wrote),  as  a  gentleman  as  cool  (as  we  say)  as 
a  cucumber.  He  was  really  very  nervous,  ex 
citable,  impulsive,  passionate,  and  I  know  not 
what  other  highly  explosive  things,  and  the  ef 
fect  that  I  had  described  was  merely  his  "front." 

I  think  there  used  to  be  there  on  one  door  a 
neat  inscription  stating  that  this  was  the  office 
of  Dr.  McCulloch.  Now  on  a  long  transom  ex 
tending  across  two  rooms  was  painted  in  large 
"caps,"  "McCulloch  Campaign  Headquarters." 
And  the  apartments  within  were  a  scene  of  re 
sounding  activity. 

Dr.  McCulloch  bumped  into  us  amid  the 
throng;  Mr.  Nicholson  stated  the  case;  I  en 
deavored  to  excuse  myself  from  interrupting  the 

[35] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

candidate;  and  he  declared  that  in  a  matter  of 
such  momentous  concern  to  literature  as  this, 
"the  affairs  of  state  would  have  to  wait." 

They  did  not,  however,  wait  long.  Dr.  Mc- 
Culloch  looked  into  me  with  a  periscope,  which 
he  borrowed  from  a  physician  hard  by,  and  who 
is  to  take  over  his  practice  in  the  event  of  his 
election;  dashed  into  the  next  room  for  a  hand 
in  the  conference  there;  dashed  out  again  with 
a  prescription  in  his  hand,  and  the  counsel  that 
"there  was  no  need  for  worry";  and  disappeared 

again  in  the  hum. 

*•****• 

At  my  hotel  I  found  awaiting  me  a  letter  from 
the  proprietor,  a  hearty  young  gentleman,  here 
inafter  to  be  called  Mr.  Gates — 'tis  an  excellent 
name,  and  will  do  as  well  as  another.  He  said 
that  he  was  something  of  a  man  of  letters  him 
self,  having  "read  an  essay  once.  It  was,"  he 
continued,  "one  of  Nick's  own,  and  very  good,  I 
remember — all  about  Mr.  Smith  and  why  he 
went  to  church."  And  he  (Mr.  Gates)  would 
present  himself  at  the  first  opportunity. 

The  next  day,  at  luncheon  with  him  and  Mr. 
Nicholson,  I  began  my  studies  into  the  life  of 
a  proprietor  of  a  first-class  city  hotel.  It's  an 
[36] 


NICHOLSON  AND  A  CAMEL 

interesting  field  of  investigation,  which  I  am  re 
solved  to  pursue  at  other  stages  in  my  travels. 
The  stealing  that  goes  on  by  guests  of  hotels, 
apparently,  is  frequently  quite  picturesque. 

Know  that  at  this  hotel,  in  the  "Blue  Room" 
— the  most  elaborate  dining-room,  very  prettily 
decorated — live  six  small,  pale  yellow  canaries. 
In  six  enormous  yellow  cages  (each  on  a  tall 
stem)  they  live,  which,  placed  (each  cage  be 
tween  two  tables)  three  on  a  side  of  the  aisle, 
make  a  noble  avenue  down  the  middle  of  the 
room.  Well  (so  much  for  the  setting),  this  is 
the  story :  one  day  one  of  the  canaries  was  stolen 
.—spang  out  of  its  cage  in  the  dining-room. 

And  another  day,  out  of  this  same  dining- 
room,  was  stolen  a  silver  plate,  forty-two  inches 
in  diameter.  Man  stuck  it  under  his  coat.  Very 
tall,  colored  waiter  (at  our  table  now)  ran  out 
and  after  him.  Plate  recovered.  The  number 
of  ashtrays,  towels,  sheets,  etc.,  stolen  in  one 
year  from  such  a  hotel  as  this,  I  am  told,  passes 
calculation. 

But  the  most  entertaining  theft  of  all  of  which 
I  heard  was  this:  some  passing  pilgrim  stole  the 
mattress  on  his  bed.  Had  moved  in  an  empty 
trunk,  or  one  nearly  so,  apparently  having  this 

[37] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

novel  idea  in  mind.  (A  box  of  springs  on  the 
bed,  clothed  in  the  bed  covers,  would  give  nearly 
the  effect  of  the  mattress  being  there.)  "And 
so,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Gates,  "he  got  my  own  help 
to  steal  my  own  stuff  for  him — to  get  his  trunks 
down!" 

But  I  have  overlooked  a  matter — you  will  find 
many  things  somewhat  out  of  their  natural  order 
in  this  History  of  the  Life  and  Times  of  Mur 
ray  Hill. 

The  day  before,  on  my  return  to  my  quarters, 
I  found  the  publicity  man  of  my  hotel  on  the 
lookout  for  me.  "Now  we  must  get,"  he  said, 
as  we  began  work  on  the  interview  with  the  dis 
tinguished  guest  for  the  local  morning  papers, 
"the  name  of  the  hotel  well  up  at  the  top."  Then 
he  dropped  away  into  reminiscences  of  his  career, 
for  which  I  am  highly  grateful. 

"Several  years  ago,"  he  said,  "shortly  after 
the  hotel  opened,  there  was  a  circus  coming  to 
town,  and  the  people  were  going  to  put  up  here. 
I  saw  a  chance  for  a  big  story.  And  they  agreed 
to  send  on  in  advance  a  baby  camel,  for  exhibi 
tion  in  the  lobby.  Well,  when  the  camel  got  here, 
there  wasn't  much  of  the  baby  about  him;  he 
was  the  biggest  camel  I  ever  did  see,  and  there 
[38] 


NICHOLSON  AND  A  CAMEL 

was  no  way  at  all  of  getting  him  through  the 
door.  So  we  marched  him  around  outside,  fol 
lowed  by  a  pretty  good-sized  gallery. 

"But,"  he  said,  and  indignation  was  with  him 
still,  "when  the  papers  printed  the  story,  they 
got  the  camel  in  all  right,  without  any  mention 
at  all  of  the  name  of  either  the  hotel  or  the  cir 
cus  !  And  where  did  I  get  off  as  a  publicity 
man!" 

This  time,  however,  we  got  across  in  the  morn 
ing  papers,  the  name  of  the  hotel,  as  well  as  an 
account  of  the  camel. 

And  directly  after  breakfast  up  turns  a  man 
from  an  evening  paper.  Now,  I  had  never  seen 
this  young  man  before  in  my  life.  He  had  never 
before  seen  me.  Nor  had  I  ever  even  heard  of 
him.  Well,  then,  as  sprightly  ladies  who  write 
vivacious  reminiscences  of  literary  life  say, 
"judge  of  my  astonishment"  when,  at  the  con 
clusion  of  our  interview,  he  took  from  his  pocket 
and  presented  to  me  a  faded  daguerreotype  of 
a  figure  in  the  uniform  of  an  officer  in  the  Union 
Army  of  the  Civil  War.  The  face  had  a  remark 
ably  familiar  look.  "Turn  it  over,"  said  the 
young  man.  And  on  the  back  of  the  card  I  saw 
written  in  pencil  the  name,  Will  Hill.  "I  think," 

[39] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

said  the  young  man,  "this  is  a  photograph  of  your 
father.  It  was  found  in  the  old  home  of  my 
family  a  few  days  before  you  came  to  town. 
Perhaps  you  would  care  to  have  it."  Now,  my 
father's  name  was  Wilbur;  but  those  who  knew 
him  when  he  was  young  (and  I  was  about  to 
say  handsome,  but  he  was  that  to  the  last),  and 
at  the  time  of,  as  Riley  says,  "the  army,"  al 
ways  called  him  Will.  And  I  have  no  doubt 
that,  in  this  strange  way,  has  come  into  my  hands 
an  authentic  portrait  of  him,  which  I  knew  not 
existed.  (Mr.  Nicholson  claims  the  exclusive 
rights  to  the  use  in  fiction  of  this  story.) 

Nick  stood  the  check  for  the  luncheon.  He 
has  a  humorous  trick,  it  appears,  for  the  educa 
tion  of  the  waiters  and  the  cashier  here.  After 
his  signature,  he  writes  on  each  meal  check  a 
line  or  so  of  quotation  from  the  poets.  To-day 
this  was: 

The  hounds  of  Spring  are  in  Winter's  traces- 

To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gates  it  was  that  he  dedi 
cated  a  novel  of  his  called  "Lady  Larkspur." 
In  acknowledgment  of  this,  Mrs.  Gates  sent  him 
a  handsome  silver  plate,  together  with  a  large 
sheaf  of  larkspur,  which  she  had  taken  consid- 
[40] 


NICHOLSON  AND  A  CAMEL 

erable  trouble  to  procure.  Nick  didn't  know 
larkspur  from  a  goat.  Said  to  Mrs.  Nicholson: 
"Put  the  fine  plate  away,  throw  the  weeds  into 

the  back  yard." 

***•**• 

All  this  time,  you  know,  I  was  merely  crawl 
ing  about,  and  scared  of  every  step ;  for  notwith 
standing  Dr.  McCulloch's  assurances  there  con 
tinued  to  be  something  dreadfully  wrong  with 
my  inner  machinery.  It  was  the  next  day,  on 
the  street,  when,  suddenly,  I  became  conscious 
that  I  was  much  better.  Distress  of  mind,  at 
any  rate,  had  mysteriously  quite  left  me.  I  felt 
again  something  of  the  thrill  of  living.  How 
had  this  come  about?  And  so  quickly! 

An  instant — and  it  suddenly  was  made  clear 
to  me.  I  knew  I  should  not  die — for  quite  a 
while  yet.  I  discovered  that  I  had  regained  pos 
session  of  a  great  gift;  I  was  viewing  with  the 
pleasure  of  admiration  the  spectacle  of  num 
bers  of  charming-looking  women  passing  to  and 
fro. 

And  so,  with  a  step  sturdier  than  for  a  number 
of  days,  I  proceeded  (Mr.  Nicholson  having  once 
again  given  me  a  guest  card  there)  to  the  Uni 
versity  Club  of  Indiana,  which,  as  one  of  the 

[41] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

pleasantest  clubs  in  the  land,  I  have  so  well 
described  elsewhere. 

There  is  as  hall-boy  there  a  young  Japanese. 
He  received  my  hat  and  coat,  erect  and  silent, 
with  completely  disinterested  courtesy,  and  with 
that  absolute  immobility  of  countenance  which 
perhaps  only  a  Jap  can  attain.  I  had  been  for 
a  little  while  writing  some  letters  in  a  room  to 
one  side,  when  I  heard  Booth  Tarkington's 
hoarse  voice  booming  out  in  the  hall.  I  hopped 
up  and  went  to  meet  him.  He  greeted  me  in 
the  cordial  Tarkington  way.  Wearing  a  black 
derby,  a  dark  overcoat,  and  his  stick,  he  presented 
a  decidedly  gentlemanly  effect.  For  several  mo 
ments  we  talked.  Then  he  went  downstairs,  or 
upstairs,  or  somewhere;  and  I  returned  to  my 
writing. 

When  I  was  ready  to  go,  the  Jap  boy  ap 
peared,  strangely  changed.  His  beads  of  black 
eyes  beamed  upon  me  approval.  When  he  had 
got  me  into  my  overcoat  and  had  handed  me  my 
hat,  he  bowed  very,  very  low,  and  (like  a  flunky 
on  the  stage)  extending  toward  me  with  out 
stretched  arm  my  stick,  he  pronounced  (the  ras 
cal  must  have  looked  up  my  name),  with  the  def 
erence  of  veneration,  these  words:  "Mr.  Hill." 
[42] 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  SOUL  AND  THE  TRAP-DRUMMER 

I'VE  been  searching  all  about  and  I  can't  find 
that  thing  to  save  my  life.  Well,  no  matter. 
I  only  thought  of  it,  anyhow,  because  it  reminded 
me  of  something  else.  You  see,  when  I  got  into 
town  they  were  putting  on  another  one  of  those 
why- Indianapolis -is.- the-best- city- to-live- and- 
do-business-in-of-any-place-on-earth  campaigns. 
Nicholson  wrote  a  thingumbob  on  the  theme, 
which  was  got  up  into  a  circular.  That  was  what 
I  was  looking  for — the  copy  I  had  of  this  cir 
cular.  Perhaps  not  so  good  a  publicity  circular, 
but  certainly  a  more  authentic  piece  of  litera 
ture,  is  another  document  on  the  same  theme, 
which  I  have  in  my  hand.  It  was  written  by  one 
Martha  Rosalind  Long,  a  very  youthful  person 
to  whom  I  have  the  honor  to  be  a  cousin.  It 
was  written  to  fulfill  an  assignment  given  to  all 
the  students  in  the  grade  schools  of  the  city. 
It  opens  thus:  "I  am  going  to  talk  stern  to 
you  just  as  I  would  if  we  were  eye  to  eye." 

[43] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

I  wish  I  could  tell  you  all  about  Christian  Sci 
ence,  but  (I've  just  been  glancing  at  my  watch) 
I  doubt  whether  I  have  time.  Anyhow,  this  I 
must  say,  I  have  been  much  strengthened  by  it; 
and  I  recommend,  to  all  young  men,  the  study 
of  its  doctrine — cultivated,  that  is,  as  it  was  by 
me.  Christian  Science  (as  I  grasp  it)  is  a  tall, 
rather  slender,  firmly-built  young  lady,  with 
abundant  dark  hair,  a  fair  and  honest  face,  mu 
sical  voice,  decidedly  capable,  somewhat  serious- 
minded,  born  in  the  north  of  England,  "trans 
lated"  (as  she  puts  it)  to  this  country  as  a  child, 
and  now  (so  she  declares)  "a  Hoosier."  Per 
haps  there  is  some  confusion  in  my  mind  between 
the  charm  of  my  priestess  and  the  tenets  of  her 
faith.  However  that  may  be,  as  on  pleasant 
afternoons  we  walked  by  the  sparkling,  rush 
ing  waters  (of  the  exceedingly  stagnant  and 
murky  canal  which  plies  toward  Indianapolis) ,  I 
received  (in  what  I  was  told  were  "elementary" 
lessons)  the  knowledge  that  the  power  was  mine 
to  make  and  to  keep  myself  whole. 

Two  things  about  the  principles  presented  to 
my  mind  somewhat  troubled  me.  For  one  thing, 
they  seemed  to  supply  nothing  beyond  a  work 
ing  philosophy  for  living  this  life;  and  has  not 
[44] 


THE  TRAP-DRUMMER 

man  always  sought  from  anything  like  a  religion 
some  answer  to  the  immemorial  and  eternal  ques 
tion  of  (as  Francis  Hackett,  in  one  of  his  ex 
cellent  articles,  puts  it)  "where  do  we  go  from 
here?"  Also,  it  struck  me  that  "Science"  was 
somewhat  lacking  in  emotional  quality — that,  as 
a  subject  of  communion,  it  did  not  altogether 
fulfill  the  occasion:  a  man  and  a  maiden,  newly 
acquainted,  strolling  beneath  budding  trees 
along  the  tow-path  of  a  quaint  canal. 

It's  a  bright  little  park  (Monet-blue  on  misty 
days),  the  handsome,  long,  low  Federal  Build 
ing  to  the  south  of  it,  and  from  the  north,  nestled 
in  a  row  of  other  structures,  the  pretty  little 
building  of  the  Bobbs-Merrill  Company  brightly 
overlooks  it.  And  there,  when  fortune  favors 
you,  you  may  find  as  agreeable  a  gentleman  as 
you  would  care  to  see.  I  have  never  "got"  ex 
actly  what  the  official  title  is  of  Hewitt  Hanson 
Howland  in  relation  to  this  company,  but  as  well 
as  I  can  make  out  he  seems  to  run  the  editorial 
end  of  the  business. 

He  is  a  type  I  greatly  fancy:  a  bit  of  a  dandy. 
And  much  did  I  relish  again  the  just-stepped- 
out-of-a-bandbox  effect  of  this  young  man  as  we 
made  our  greetings.  I  suppose  some  who  look 

[45] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

at  the  pleasant  gray  of  his  neatly-barbered  hair 
might  say  that  now  he  is  not  so  much  a  young 
man  as  he  once  was.  Pooh!  Smart,  slender, 
alert,  flexible,  what  have  a  few  years,  more  or 
less,  done  to  Hewitt,  other  than  to  add  still  more 
luster  to  an  impeccable  polish? 

To  dinner,  then,  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  How- 
land  at  the  University  Club,  and  afterward  to 
an  excellent  amateur  performance  of  "The  Mis 
leading  Lady,"  given  by  the  Dramatic  Club  of 
the  city.  A  sister,  Mrs.  Howland,  of  Irvin 
Cobb ;  but  an  altogether  different  type  of  beauty, 
quite  dissimilar  in  the  charm  of  her  very  pro 
nounced  appeal. 

The  Club:  one  of  the  oldest  institutions  in 
Indianapolis.  Performances  given  four  times 
a  year.  A  dance  afterwards.  No  admission 
charged  to  members  or  for  guests.  All  affairs 
financed  by  club  dues.  Tarkington  president 
when  he  was  about  twenty-four.  There  to-night 
— with  that  beak  of  his,  shoulders  hooped  up,  in 
his  dress  coat,  standing  a  bit  up  the  stairway 
(in  the  intermission)  looking  a  good  deal  like 
&  huge  and  curious  bird  out  of  the  Bronx  zoo. 

"Yes,"  said  Nicholson, — we  were  again  ai 
[46] 


THE  TRAP-DRUMMER 

luncheon, — "they  were  the  aristocracy  of  In 
diana."  He  meant  the  Protestant  minister  pio 
neers  (they  were  generally  Methodists)  and  the 
families  they  reared.  Booth  Tarkington  was  of 
this  sturdy  stock.  And 
so, — though  a  gentleman 
very  cleverly  introduced 
nie  the  other  day  as  one 
"born  in  Indiana  but  who 
had  never  been  west  of  the  Hud 
son  River," — and  so  can  this  be  a 
boast  of  mine.  Nicholson  cannot, 
as  he  should  be  able  to  do,  claim  a 
Hoosier  minister  grandfather.  But 
his  "folks"  (as  he  would  say) 
in  early  days  came  over 
long  trail  from  North  Car 
olina,  through  Kentucky, 
to  Indiana,  a  hardy  and  \ . 

( as  was  the  habit  of  strong          •**•* 

/».,.,.  .  ^x        -i          BOOTH      TARKINOTON'3     DRAW- 

men  OI  their  time)    a  God-    ING     OF    HIMSELF    "LOOKING 

X»        „•  i     ,  A  T7      '  A     GOOD     DEAL     LIKE     A     HUGE 

fearing  lot.  An  Episco-  AXD  CURIOU8  BIRD  OUT  or  THH 
palian  was  Nick,  first  by 

inheritance,  and  then  by  baptism,  at  about  the 
age  of  two.  I  have  been  at  some  pains  to  state 
this  matter  clearly  in  order  to  explain  the  meas- 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

ure  of  my  interest  in  the  discourse  this  day  of 
Meredith  Nicholson,  and  his  curiosity  as  to 
things  spiritual. 

"At  any  rate,"  he  was  saying,  "our  grand 
fathers,  yours  and  mine,  believed  in  something. 
They  believed  in  hell,  for  one  thing.  Nowadays 
there  is  little  in  the  churches,  the  Protestant 
churches,  but  uplift,  social  service  sentiment,  and 
that  kind  of  thing.  You  go  to  a  minister  to 
day  and  he  rather  apologizes  for  his  Faith. 

"You  say  to  him:  'I'd  like  to  belong  to  this 
church,  but  there  are  a  number  of  things  in  Scrip 
ture  teaching  which  I  have  great  difficulty  in 
accepting.'  And  he  replies:  'Oh,  well;  God  does 
not  require  us  to  believe  more  than  we  can.' 

"No,  Protestantism  has  done  its  work,  has  had 
its  liberalizing  influence,  has  made  its  great  con 
tribution  to  the  world,  and  can  never  again  be 
anything  like  the  force  in  history  that  it  was. 

"Indeed,  the  only  church  at  hand  which  stub 
bornly  stands  for  a  definite  faith  is  the  Roman 
Catholic.  Gives  you  a  great  sense  of  power.  The 
mothering  of  the  world — you've  got  to  admit 
there's  something  very  appealing  in  the  idea." 

Now,  I  will  talk  with  any  man  on  any  sub- 
[48] 


THE  TRAP-DRUMMER 

ject  (except  baseball,  which,  to  my  mind,  ought, 
to  be  abolished),  and  if  I  will  walk  a  half-mile 
to  talk  with  a  man  about  painting,  and  a  mile 
to  prove  him  all  wrong  about  literature,  twain 
will  I  walk  (in  the  rain)  to  hear  him  out  on 
the  subject  of  religion.  So  we  fell  to. 

Mr.  Nicholson,  he  declares,  could  tell  the 
priests  of  America  a  thing  or  two  about  how  to 
take  advantag-  of  the  present  spiritual  unrest. 
For  one  thing  (u  is  his  opinion),  the  church  over 
here  should  technically  be  much  more  separated 
from  its  head  at  Rome,  as  "it  is  now  practically 
an  independent  institution,  anyway."  He  re 
cited  the  scenario  of  an  essay  he  said  he  would 
write  if  he  ever  got  time  on  some  such  subject 
as  "How  Much  Can  Man  Believe?"  Quoted 
Newman,  Matthew  Arnold,  and  Emerson  in  a 
breath. 

To-day  he  inscribed  his  check:  "Love  is  not 
love  which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds."  I  ob 
served  the  tall  negro  who  attended  us  pucker 
ing  his  lips  and  knitting  his  brows  as,  slowly 
withdrawing,  he  earnestly  endeavored  to  dig 
some  meaning  from  this  line.  As  he  neared  the 
cashier's  desk  a  message  of  some  kind  from  it 
seemed  to  hare  reached  his  mind,  as  he  suddenly 

[49] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

relaxed  in  a  gesture  of  mirth,  and,  with  a  gleam 
ing  grin,  slapped  his  thigh. 

It  was,  indeed,  a  great  pity — a  great  pity  that 
I  should  not  be  able  to  stay  over  next  week  in 
order  to  see  the  performance  of  "Bubbles,"  ad 
vertised  as  "A  Musical  Froth  Benefit  of  the 
Boys'  Club,"  and  in  which  Nick  was  to  be  a 
"black-face"  and  do  a  song  turn.  Rehearsing 
for  the  event  now  he  was,  every  day  at  noon 
in  a  room  he  had  obtained  for  this  purpose  at 
my  hotel. 

"You  see  that  lady  going  there,"  he  suddenly 
said;  "she  teaches  classes  in  ballet  dancing,  and 
has  a  long  waiting  list.  Put  that  in  your  book: 
they  teach  the  ballet  in  Indianapolis — long  wait 
ing  list." 

******* 

Startling!  Stunning!  Elevator  man  in  this 
hotel  looks  exactly  like  James  Whitcomb  Riley. 
"Sure,"  said  our  publicity  man,  "had  feature 
story,  with  picture,  in  the  papers  when  we  got 
him.  He  never  saw  Riley." 

Had  promised  to  communicate  with  Tarking- 
ton  to  make  an  appointment  to  have  a  little  visit 
with  him.    No  telephone  number  listed.    "Infor 
mation"  refused  information.    Ran  into  a  friend 
[50] 


THE  TRAP-DRUMMER 

of  his  (he  must  have  been  a  very  good  friend, 
with  a  jealous  regard  for  Tark's  elaborately 
fortified  seclusion)  who  gave  me  a  number. 
"Hello!  This  Mr.  Tarkington's  house?"  "Naw, 


BOOTH      TABKINGTON'S      PO1TRAIT     OP      MEREDITH      NICHOLSON"      AS      A 

"BLACK-FACE." 

stockyards."    Tried  another  number  suggested  to 
me.    Got  Fort  Benjamin  Harrison. 

Admirable  journal:  "Annals  of  Medical  His 
tory."  Recommend  it  to  all  students  of  litera 
ture.  Read  in  a  recent  number  of  it,  while  wait 
ing  in  his  office  for  him,  several  poems  by  Dr. 
McCulloch  (fine  one  entitled  "Compiegne")  and 

[51] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

an  excellent  article,  "The  Sterility  of  Catherine 
de  Medici."  McCulloch,  when  he  turned  up,  told 
me  he  had  just  put  Tarkington  to  bed  with  a 
severe  attack  of  indigestion.  Had  the  night  be 
fore  eaten  some  lobster  or  something. 

Most  extraordinary  thing!  I  had  been  deriv 
ing  considerable  entertainment  from  the  effect 
about  me  of  my  sensational  illness.  It  had  be 
come  the  literary  event  of  the  season  in  the 
Wabash  valley.  I  remember  an  English  novel  I 
one  time  read  in  which  was  a  little  boy  who  had 
never  seen  the  sea.  This  situation  with  him  had 
become  noised  about  in  the  train  as  he  was  on 
his  way  to  the  coast.  When  the  spectacle  which 
he  had  never  beheld  came  within  view  excitement 
became  general.  The  revelation  of  his  answer 
awaited  with  bated  breath,  he  was  asked  from 
every  side:  "How  do  you  feel  now?"  So  with 
me,  my  inner  workings  day  by  day  a  subject  of 
keen  and  popular  attention — how  did  I  feel  now? 
[But,  I  had  no  notion  of  the  possibility  of  my 
starting  an  epidemic,  of  my  taking  it  up  making 
acute  indigestion  the  fashion. 

Yes,  Hewitt  declared  I  had  done  it.  He  looked 
wan.     Had  been  laid  up  for  a  couple  of  days. 
Bad  case  of  indigestion. 
[52] 


THE  TRAP-DRUMMER 

Easter:  first  thing  I  saw,  in  a  front  room 
of  the  Nicholson  house,  was  an  extraordinary 
collection  of  musical  instruments,  conspicuous! 
among  them  a  bass-drum,  the  other  engines  of 
sound  unfamiliar  to  me  off  the  vaudeville  stage. 
'Wouldn't  that  flabbergast  you!  I  thought.  If 
he  hasn't,  in  addition  to  suddenly  taking  to  trav 
eling  about  with  a  professional  dancing  partner 
(about  which  I  had  been  hearing  much)  and  re- 
. hearsing  to  be  a  "nigger"  minstrel,  gone  and 
become  what  Riley's  poem  calls  a  "little  man  in 
a  tin  shop!" 

:  I  was  shown  by  the  maid  into  a  room  opening 
onto  the  opposite  side  of  the  hall,  and  examined 
this  apartment  while  I  waited.  Walls  lined  with 
books;  large  oil  painting  of  Tark,  overcoat  on, 
crouching  in  a  chair  (in  effect  the  work  of  a 
promising  student) ;  among  the  framed  photo 
graphs  two  of  Henry  James,  and  one  of  a  figure 
(that  of  his  father,  presumably)  in  the  uniform 
of  a  Union  officer  of  the  Civil  War. 

There  is  a  daughter,  Chelsea-china-skepherdess 
type,  newly  turned  twenty,  engaged  (though  I 
heard  that  her  father  was  horrified  at  the  idea 
of  any  one  being  engaged  before  at  least  thirty 

[53] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

or  so),  and  two  sons,  each  in  the  neighborhood 
of  two-thirds  grown. 

Said  Nick,  as  he  finished  his  soup:  "Now  a 
good  deal  has  been  written  about  old  tombstones, 
and  the  inscriptions  on  them,  and  so  on;  but  a 
good  and  a  new  idea  for  an  essay"  (he  is  all 
the  while  throwing  out  to  me  most  generously 
ideas  for  essays)  "would  be  this:  go  to  a  costly 
bridge,  or  some  other  civic  monument,  read  on 
the  handsome  bronze  tablet  there  the  names  of 
the  honorable  councilmen  who  caused  it  to  be 
erected,  and  then  look  up  how  many  of  them 
are  now  in  jail." 

About  those  feet.  It  may  be  funny  that  some 
of  our  recent  literary  visitors  from  London  had 
such  large  feet  that  no  shoe  store  over  here 
could  fit  them  with  overshoes.  But  what  hap 
pened  to  Nick?  With  his  long,  narrow  feet,  into 
a  store  in  Boston,  or  Philadelphia,  or  some  such 
place,  to  be  told  that  they  did  not  "cater"  to  "the 
Southern  trade." 

Dancing!  Learned  it  at  forty-eight.  Didn't 
learn  before  because  he  didn't  believe  he  could. 
They  tried  to  teach  him  in  early  life  by  the  count 
ing  method.  And  he  never  could  learn  anything 
[54] 


THE  TRAP-DRUMMER 

that  went  one,  two,  three.  Discovered  only  lately 
that,  with  the  right  partner,  you  could  learn  to 
dance  by  just  pitching  in  and  beginning  right 
off  to  dance,  without  any  one-two-three  business 
at  all.  Highly  recommends  it  for  one  subject  to 
indigestion,  as  he  is.  And,  by  the  way,  had  he 
told  me  that  he  had  just  had  a  bad  attack? 
Pretty  near  in  bed  with  it. 

"Meredith,"  said  Mrs.  Nicholson,  "you  know 
it  is  Easter." 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Nick;  "of  course  I  know 

it  is." 

i 

"Wasn't  it  at  Easter,"  she  asked,  "that  you 
declared  you  were  going  to  enter  the  Catholic 
church?" 

"Well,"  said  Nick,  as  though  thoughtfully 
feeling  about  in  his  mind  for  the  explanation, 
"I  guess  it's  because  I've  been  so  busy  I  didn't 
get  around  to  it."  Then,  brightening  up:  "I'll 
enter  at  Whitsuntide." 

Well,  I  declare!  Not  Nick,  after  all,  but  the 
younger  son  it  was  who  belonged  to  that  layout 
of  tom-tom  in  the  front  room.  And  after  din 
ner  this  locally  celebrated  trap -drummer  (as  I 
learned  he  was)  gave  a  very  finished  perform 
ance  in  all  the  high  complexity  of  his  art:  vie- 

[55] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

trola  turned  OR,  leaping  from  place  t'o  place, 
pounding  with  a  variety  of  sticks  on  this  and 
that,  in  effect  all  at  once. 

Excellent  study — superstitions.  What's  that 
fellow's  name?  Frazer,  or  something  like  that. 
Wrote  that  enormous  book,  in  a  number  of  huge 
volumes,  "Tbe  Golden  Bough,  a  Study  in  Magic 
and  Religion."  Grand  book!  Can  be  read  in 
for  weeks  at  a  stretch.  You  never  tire  of  it. 
Full  of  fascinating  stuff  about  the  superstitions 
of  all  sorts  of  primitive  peoples.  Nothing,  how 
ever,  in  the  book  about  two  dollar  bills. 

I  had  been  in  Indianapolis  only  a  short  while 
when  it  struck  me  that  there  were  an  extraordi 
nary  number  of  two  dollar  bills  in  circulation 
there.  When  I  put  across  a  counter,  or  gave  a 
waiter  a  twenty  dollar  bill  I'd  get  in  change 
maybe  nine  twos.  Because  I  wasn't  "on,"  this 
was. 

Nick  (like  a  sensible  man)  won't  walk  under 
ladders;  he  is  depressed  (and  rightly  enough, 
too)  if  he  sees  the  new  moon  in  the  wrong  way. 
Indeed,  his  spiritual  life,  so  to  say,  is  rich  in  su 
perstitions.  And  he  won't,  if  he  can  help  it,  ac 
cept  a  two  dollar  bill.  A  young  woman  cashier 
(superior  sort  of  person)  looked  at  him  pity- 
[56] 


THE  TRAP-DRUMMER 

ingly  just  the  other  day,  and  said:    "Wed,  I 
should  think  you  would  be  above  that!" 

But  he  knows  what  all  wise  men  know  in  In 
diana,  that  a  two  dollar  bill  brings  terribly  bad 
luck;  a  truth  which  was  discovered  on  the  West 
ern  Circuit,  and,  figuratively  speaking,  is  graven 
on  the  stone  tablets  of  the  law  of  all  book-makers, 
Mr.  Gates,  a  few  days  later,  imparted  to  me  the 
knowledge  of  how  to  take  off  the  curse  of  having 
a  two  dollar  bill.  You  tear  off  one  corner  as  soon 
as  you  receive  one.  But  I  found  all  corners  al 
ready  torn  off  those  that  came  to  me. 

No  sensitivity  whatever  as  to  editions  in  books, 
has  Nick.  He  enjoys,  and  values,  those  in  the 
fairly  comprehensive  collection  he  has  solely  for, 
apparently,  their  substance,  the  literature  that 
is  in  them.  As  to  editions,  he  says,  he  simply 
likes  to  have  a  book  of  "handy/'  comfortable 
size.  Innocent,  quite,  of  the  instinct  that  knows 
that  of  every  book  in  the  world  there  is  only  one 
edition  a  copy  of  which  is  right  to  have  as  one's 
own. 

Among  many  other  things,  he  reads  contem 
porary  "realism"  a  good  deal.  And  he  broods 
upon  some  "serious"  things  by  his  hand  to  come. 
But  his  heart  lights  up  most  when  he  beholds  that 

[57] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

sort  of  "imagination"  which  soars  above  the 
things  that  never  were  on  land  or  sea.  And,  "my 
idea  of  the  novelist  is  still  pretty  much  the  old 
idea  of  the  story-teller  at  the  bazaar."  What  he 
feels  is  best  is,  after  all,  "the  Arabian  Nights 
kind  of  thing." 


[58] 


CHAPTER  IV 

WHY  SHAKESPEARE'S  AUDIENCE  DIDN'T  WALK  OUT 
ON  HIM 


was  the  night  I  was  to  dine  with  Tark- 
A  ington,  at  seven.  I  did  some  letter-  writing, 
and  then  went  downstairs  to  look  around  there, 
at  six.  And  there  I  found  him,  in  the  billiard- 
room,  hard  at  his  favorite  game  of  sniff  and 
smoking  one  of  those  huge  cigarettes  of  his 
branded  in  large  "caps"  "B.  T."  He  was  got 
up  in  a  light-colored  suit,  with  a  dappled  effect, 
which,  at  least  in  a  sitting  posture,  didn't  fit  him 
very  well  as  the  coat  humped  a  good  deal  in  the 
back  between  the  shoulders,  and  buttoned  in 
front  fell  across  his  middle  in  heavy  creases,  like 
the  skin  of  a  hippopotamus.  He  wore  (what 
I  do  not  remember  to  have  seen  on  him  before) 
glasses  —  spectacles  with  tortoise-shell  rims  to 
the  large  round  lens,  and  flat  gold  shaves  (or 
what  the  opticians,  I  believe,  call  temples)  over 
the  ears;  a  heavy  ring  with  a  dark,  flat  stone 

[59] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

of  ample  size  set  in  it,  a  gold-faced  stick-pin  to 
his  tie,  very  blue  socks,  and  gray  spats  which 
seemed  rather  large  for  him.  He  said  he  would 
be  up  at  once.  I  asked  him  not  to  hurry,  as 
it  was  only  a  little  after  six,  and  said  that  any 
time  he  cared  to  come  up,  he  would  find  me 
contentedly  occupied  with  reading  or  writing. 
In  reply  to  this  he  exclaimed,  "Fine!" 

At  dinner,  he  began  the  conversation  by  tell 
ing  me  that  he  had  found  a  good  aid  to  keeping 
mentally  fit  in  knocking  off  work  at  about  five 
in  the  afternoon  and  coming  down  to  rest  his 
mind  by  playing  sniff  for  an  hour  and  a  half  or 
so.  He  was  working,  he  said,  on  some  motion- 
picture  scenarios,  boy  stories,  which  his  contract 
called  for  in  the  amount  of  a  certain  number  of 
them  at  a  time,  there  referred  to  as  a  "lot-" 
Then  he  fussed  a  good  deal  about  the  way  the 
motion-picture  people  tampered  with  his  stuff, 
writing  into  it  things  which  they  thought  he 
,would  have  put  there  if  he  had  well  enough 
'known  the  game.  For  instance,  incorporating 
•into  his  story  scenes  in  which  the  Penrod-like 
boy's  dog  saves  from  death  by  drowning  the 
town  banker's  daughter,  and  so  on.  When  he 
had  got  wind  of  such  action  on  their  part  he 
[60] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  AUDIENCE 

had  at  once  telegraphed  the  picture  men  to  stop, 
he  wouldn't  have  it.  They  thereupon  suggested 
that  they  send  on  from  Los  Angeles  a  "lady 
writer"  to  help  him  go  at  the  business  in  a  pro 
fessional  manner. 

I  noticed  that  Tarkington  ate  rather  rapidly. 
I  like  to  eat  rapidly  myself,  largely,  I  think,  be 
cause  I  am  impatient  to  come  to  the  smoking 
and  real  talking  part  of  the  meal.  But  as  Dr. 
McCulloch  had  instructed  me  to  eat  slowly,  I 
had  some  difficulty  in  keeping  my  host  anywhere 
in  sight.  He  drinks  near-beer  with  his  meals, 
and  when  playing  at  sniff. 

After  dinner,  we  went  into  a  sort  of  lounging- 
room  upstairs,  that  is,  on  the  same  floor  as  the 
dining-room,  and  away  from  the  general  gather 
ing  places  below.  Here  we  were  quite  alone. 

I  told  Tarkington,  now  for  the  first  time  in 
some  detail,  the  story  of  my  recent  arrival  in 
Indianapolis.  And,  in  turn,  he  related  to  me,  in 
greater  detail  than  I  had  ever  heard  it  before, 
an  account  of  his  own  dramatic  collapse,  a  num 
ber  of  years  ago.  He  was,  it  appears,  out  for 
an  automobile  drive  with  his  sister  and  nephew, 
when  there  came  upon  him  a  mysterious  tight 
ening  about  the  heart,  and  he  began  to  have  much 

[61] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

difficulty  in  getting  his  breath.  He  sat  hooped 
up  in  a  -corner  of  the  machine,  and  felt  a  decided 
disinclination  to  talk.  When  his  nephew  would 
exclaim,  "Oh!  Uncle  Booth,  look  at  that!"  or, 
"Uncle  Booth,  don't  you  think,"  etc.,  he  would 
mumble  something  which  was  not  much  of  a  re 
ply.  Finally,  so  intense  grew  the  difficulties 
within  him,  he  leaned  over,  and,  wishing  not 
to  excite  his  sister,  in  a  low  voice  directed  his 
chauffeur  to  turn  and  make  for  home. 

When  he  had  got  well  across  the  lawn,  he 
gave  up,  and  fell,  landing  on  his  back  close  be 
side  some  shrubbery.  He  quite  firmly  believed 
that  he  was  going,  as  the  hotel  people  say,  to 
"check  out."  Still  he  thought  that  if  only  he 
could  get  some  sort  of  stimulant  he  might  have 
an  hour  or  so  more.  Down  as  he  was,  how 
ever,  he  knew  that  nobody  would  be  likely  to  see 
him,  and  so,  as  he  had  not  the  breath  to  yell, 
he  raised  his  right  arm  and  waved  it.  A  colored 
woman  in  the  next  yard  caught  the  signal,  and 
called  to  him:  "You  ought  to  tie  a  piece  of  red 
yarn  'bout  yo'  wrist."  I  asked  him  what  on  earth 
was  her  thought  in  that?  He  said:  "I  haven't 
the  slightest  idea." 

He  acknowledged  that,  as  with  me  in  some- 
[62] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  AUDIENCE 

what  similar  case,  he  had  no  fear  whatever  of  the 
death  which  he  believed  to  be  imminent,  but  that, 
curiously  enough,  like  myself  again,  the  turn  of 
bis  thought  was  a  raging  anger.  Though  (he 
immediately  added),  frequently,  when  there  was 
no  reason  to  believe  that  he  might  not  attain  to 
a  hale  old  age,  he  had,  when  reminded  of  the 
subject  of  the  close  of  life  by  something  he  was 
reading  in  a  book,  newspaper  or  magazine,  had 
a  horrible  dread  of,  as  he  put  it,  annihilation. 
And,  too,  he  reminded  me,  we  were  all,  when 
they  are  seriously  ill,  fearful  of  the  death  of 
those  for  whom  we  greatly  care. 

His  anger  at  this  terrific  moment  was  directed 
entirely  against  one  object — his  small  nephew. 
The  car,  it  seems,  had  been  turning  about,  and 
had  stopped  again  before  the  Tarkington  house. 
The  child  saw  his  uncle's  waving  arm,  and  rea 
soned,  apparently,  that  he  must  be  endeavoring 
to  attract  some  one  to  him.  But — in  the  jumble 
of  lap-robes  on  the  floor  of  the  car  had  disap 
peared  this  small  person's  ball,  which  rummag 
ing  about  himself  he  had  not  been  able  to  find. 
And,  as  he  desired  it  immediately,  he  was  afraid 
his  mother  might  see  his  uncle's  gesture  of  dis 
tress  and  leave  him  before  the  ball  was  found. 

[63] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

And  so,  he  clung  to  her,  and  cried  out  again 
and  again:  "Mother,  you  can't  leave  this  car 
until  I  get  my  ball!" 

Mr.  Tarkington,  hearing  this,  and  perceiv 
ing  the  situation,  stormed  within:  "And  so  I'm 
to  be  let  die  here  on  the  grass  all  on  account  of 
a  damned  little  ball,  worth  about  fifteen  cents!" 

Found,  finally;  carried  in,  and  reclined  upon 
a  couch  in  his  library,  he  was  there,  flat  out,  for 
a  week,  attended  by  Dr.  McCulloch.  For  about 
a  year  was  scared  of  motor-cars,  and  never  went 
any  distance  in  one,  as  far  as  forty  miles,  with 
out  an  apothecary  shop  in  his  pocket. 

DR.  McCuLLOCH,  coming  through  the  room  on 
the  way  to  his  own  quarters  (he  lives  at  the  club) : 
"This  looks  bad  for  literature." 

MR.  TARKINGTON:  "We've  only  been  talking 
medicine."  Holding  out  his  cigarette  case,  espe 
cially  designed  to  accommodate  those  dread 
nought-caliber  smokes  of  his:  "Sit  down." 

But  no,  the  doctor  would  not  sit  down;  he 
must  go  in  and  rest  up  in  preparation  for  a 
speaking  tour  to  begin  to-morrow.  He  had  been 
reading  Brand  Whitlock's  volumes  on  Belgium 
—"Fine  book!" 

He  did  take  a  chair,  however,  and  the  con- 
[64] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  AUDIENCE 

versation  fell  into  bonuses  for  ex-soldiers,  taxes 
and  politics,  political  events,  European  and  in 
ternational.  Of  the  Soviet  government  of  Rus 
sia,  Tarkington  declared  that  it  was  an  autoc 
racy  and  the  least  democratic  government  in  the 
world.  Indeed,  on  all  of  these  subjects,  he  had 
an  abundance  of  ideas,  spoke  copiously  and  with 
much  conviction.  In  the  course  of  this  talk,  he 
said,  concerning  something  or  other:  "It's  us 
that  pay."  That's  exactly  what  he  said:  "It's 
us  that  pay";  and  he  said  it  twice. 

McCulloch  left  us  as  another  gentleman  pass 
ing  through  the  room  paused  at  Tarkington's 
side.  He  had  recently  returned  from  New  York, 
and  spoke  his  appreciation  of  the  opera  version 
of  "Beaucaire,"  then  there  going.  Tarkington, 
evidently,  had  liked  it  very  much.  Its  strongest 
appeal  to  him  seemed  to  have  been  as  a  series 
of  beautiful  pictures,  "like  Rawlinson's  prints," 
he  said,  "or  Gainsborough  paintings."  I  didn't 
myself  see  the  Rawlinson  idea,  as  consummate 
draughtsman  though  he  was,  Rawlinson  was  Ho- 
garthian  in  his  subjects,  and  in  his  manner  much 
too  burly,  too,  for  rendering  the  crisp  and  fra 
grant  story  of  Monsieur.  The  Gainsborough 
notion  is  an  intelligent  one,  but  (to  reverse 

[65] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

Whistler's  celebrated  remark,  "Why  drag  in 
Rembrandt?"),  in  this  case,  why  leave  our  Wat- 
teauy  and  Fragonard? 

Speaking  of  the  stage  (the  gentleman  had 
gone) ,  Tarkington  got  onto  the  subject  of  plays, 
and  associated  with  that,  the  matter  of  "teach 
ing"  short-story  writing.  He  has  a  youthful 
friend  or  relative,  who,  as  he  put  it,  writes  these 
things  "marketably  well."  She  is  told  by  some 
sort  of  an  instructor  she  has,  that  this  or  that 
story  should  not  go  as  she  has  it;  it  should  be 
"like  Shakespeare — as  in  'Hamlet.' ' 

"And  these  people,"  declared  Mr.  Tarking 
ton,  "who  have  always  got  Shakespeare  on  the 
brain,  don't  know  any  more  about  him,  what 
he  was  driving  at,  than  a  goat.  If  he  was  here 
now  they  wouldn't  get  him,  wouldn't  see  what  he 
was  up  to.  Take  'Hamlet' — why  doesn't  the 
prince  kill  the  king?  He's  got  him  there  where 
he  wants  him.  'No/  he  says;  'the  king  is  pray 
ing;  he  killed  my  father  with  all  his  sins  upon 
him,  I'll  wait.'  Well,  why  don't  he  kill  him 
afterward?  The  king  is  still  there,  soused  all 
the  while,  and  around  with  women. 

"Because  Shakespeare  knew  his  business. 
He's  got  a  whole  lot  more  up  his  sleeve  yet,  and 
[66] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  AUDIENCE 

he  wants  to  pull  it — two  acts  yet  to  go.  And 
he  knows  his  audience,  down  to  the  ground.  No 
man  ever  knew  that  better.  He's  got  to  put 
something  into  their  minds  to  make  'em  think 
the  king  can't  be  killed  right  off  the  bat,  so  his 
audience  won't  walk  out  on  him.  And  he  frames 
up  this  praying  business.  Of  course,  later  on  it 
don't  apply  a  bit,  but  he  knows  that  having 
once  got  it  over  they'll  continue  to  think  of  it 
until  he  is  ready  to  turn  the  big  trick.  Oh!  he 
was  the  Belasco  of  his  time  all  right." 

Then,  the  subject  of  our  diseases  popping  up 
again  for  a  moment,  he  told  me  the  Strange 
Story  of  the  Unwritten  Check.  He  declared  that 
either  one  of  us  could  bring  on  another  one  of 
our  seizures  by  overmuch  thinking  of  the  mat 
ter.  The  effect  of  the  mind  on  the  physical  ma 
chinery  of  man  was  the  moral  which  pointed  the 
tale  that  follows : 

Tarkington  was  in  New  York,  when  he  got 
a  message  from  Washington  inviting  him  to 
luncheon  with  President  Roosevelt  the  next  day 
but  one.  Roosevelt  had  just  read  Tarkington's 
then  newly  published  volume  of  political  stories, 
"In  the  Arena,"  and  wished  to  discuss  the  book 
with  the  author  of  it.  Tarkington  was  suddenly 

[67] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

panicky  to  discover  that  he  had  not  a  frock  coat 
with  him.  He  beat  it  to  Brooks  Brothers  to  get 
one.  And  there  found  he  didn't  have  "on  him" 
the  money  to  pay  for  it. 

He  asked  for  a  blank  check;  no,  he  asked  if 
they  had  a  Corn  Exchange  Bank  check — the 
bank  where  he  had  his  account.  That  is,  he  in 
tended  to  ask  for  such  a  check,  but  in  some  way 
he  got  the  thing  a  bit  twisted,  and  asked  for 
an  Exchange  Corn  Bank  check,  or  something 
like  that.  They  could  only  give  him  an  ordi 
nary  blank  check.  The  man  who  presented  it 
to  him,  followed  him  to  the  desk  where  he  was  to 
make  it  out,  and  overlooked  him  as  he  began. 
Tark  began  to  feel  highly  uncomfortable.  The 
idea  began  to  go  round  in  his  head  that  he  had 
balled  up  the  name  of  his  bank.  That  was  why 
this  man  was  observing  him  so  closely.  He  sus 
pected,  this  man,  as  Tarkington  put  it,  there  was 
"something  phoney"  about  this  business.  Tark- 
ington's  hand  began  to  shake  with  nervousness. 
Made  several  attempts  to  fill  out  a  check.  If  the 
man  would  only  go  away,  thought  he  could  do 
it.  Got  worse.  Said  to  himself,  "Sure,  this  man 
thinks  I'm  some  kind  of  a  crook,  or  something." 
Gave  up.  Told  the  man  that  if  he  would  fix 
[68] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  AUDIENCE 

up  the  check  otherwise,  he'd  sign  it.  But  when 
the  check  was  given  to  him  ready  to  sign,  couldn't 
write  his  name,  merely  made  wild  scratches. 
Fled — saying,  "I'll  go  over  to  my  club  and  send 
you  a  check  from  there."  When  he  got  to  The 
Players,  he  was  right  enough  again.  "But," 
with  a  croaking  laugh,  "bet  that  man  was  mighty 
surprised  when  he  saw  a  perfectly  good  check 
come  along!" 

We  have  not  yet,  however,  got  to  the  real 
punch  of  the  story.  A  year  later,  Tarkington 
was  in  Naples,  and,  as  he  was  about  to  make  out 
another  check,  the  thought  came  to  him,  strong, 
"I  hope  I  don't  make  an  ass  of  myself  here,  the 
way  I  did  that  time  in  New  York."  And,  by 
jinks,  he  did! 

He  spoke  of  Nick's  taking  to  dancing,  "at 
about  the  time  I  quit — too  old."  He  said:  "I 
was  always  the  dancing  man.  Nick  wouldn't." 
Then  one  night  Tarkington  was  at  a  dance,  but 
no  longer  dancing,  at  a  place  where  he  had 
danced  for  a  long  string  of  years.  Slowly  it 
came  over  him  there  was  something  queer  about 
the  thing.  He  tried  to  fathom  the  impression. 
The  room  was  the  same ;  the  scene  was  the  same ; 
many  of  the  people  were  the  same.  Suddenly 

[69] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

he  realized  the  cause  of  the  weird  effect.  He 
saw  what  he  had  been  looking  at  without  know 
ing  it.  Nick  was  dancing!  "And  dancing  darn 
well." 


[70] 


CHAPTER  V 

BOOTH  TARKINGTON  DISCUSSES  THE  COSMOS 

NOW  I  have  a  theory  of  human  life.  It  has 
been  steadily  growing  on  me  for  a  number 
of  years,  the  conviction  that  there  is  a  truth  in 
it.  As  I  look  back  into  my  own  life  I  cannot 
see  that  I  ever  did  anything  of  my  own  volition. 
Of  course,  at  the  times  when  I  have  been  con 
fronted  with  two,  or  more,  courses  of  action,  I 
have  always  believed  that,  weighing  the  matter 
in  my  mind,  I  myself  made  a  decision,  based  on 
my  reason  and  experience.  And  now  when  such 
a  situation  arises  I  continue  to  think  the  same. 
But  curiously  enough,  I  recognize  afterward  that 
I  did  no  such  thing. 

Any  one  (it  seems  to  me)  can  act  only  in  one 
way,  that  is,  in  accord  with  his  heredity,  environ 
ment,  and  character.  When  he  chooses  (as  he 
thinks  he  does)  one  way  rather  than  another,  and 
when  the  decision  (so  to  call  it)  is  a  close  one, 
it  is  that  there  is  within  him  something^  the 

[71] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

weight  of  a  grain  or  two  of  which  turns  the 
balance.  He  could  not  possibly  have  acted  other 
than  he  did,  as  all  his  thoughts  and  actions  can 
only  be  in  character.  I  should  think  that  any 
serious  novelist  would  back  me  up  in  this  idea, 
for  having  given  a  figure  in  his  story  heredity, 
environment,  and  character,  doesn't  he  (the  nov 
elist),  knowing  his  man,  know  beforehand  ex 
actly  what  he  will  do  in  any  given  situation? 
ME.  TARKINGTON  (frowning) :  "Why,  yes;  of 


course." 


MR.  HILL:  "And  can  the  novelist,  if  he  has 
any  artistic  conscience — can  you  make  a  fictional 
character  do  this  or  that,  as  you  select,  in  order, 
say,  to  lead  the  story  to  some  kind  of  an  ending 
you  fancy?" 

MR.  TARKINGTON  (frowning  harder) :  "Not 
now.  I  used  to  write  stories  that  way.  Used  to 
get  stumped,  and"  (broad  grin)  "try  to  think 
up  what  I'd  have  happen  next.  Now"  (in  deadly 
earnest)  "I  can  only  work  from  the  inside  out. 
The  whole  thing  turns  on  character.  And  in 
that  kind  of  writing  about  the  only  thing  you 
can  choose  is  your  setting,  the  place  where  you 
are  going  to  lay  your  story. 

"You  follow  the  lead  of  your  characters,"  he 
[72] 


TARKINGTON  AND  THE  COSMOS 

said.  "They  drag  you  on,  and  about  the  only 
fun  you  get  out  of  the  thing  is  the  way  it  is 
done — now  and  then  a  paragraph  pleases  you  by 
the  way  you  have  turned  it." 

He  spoke  of  the  novel  he  was  now  writing, 
to  be  called  "Alice  Adams,"  the  name  of  the 
heroine,  who  is  Alys  Adams  when  the  story 
opens.  He  "hated"  it,  that  book,  and  all  the 
people  in  it.  And  he  didn't  think  anybody  would 
ever  read  it. 

"But  that,"  I  said,  "is  precisely  what  you  told 
me  about  'The  Magnificent  Ambersons'  when 
you  were  writing  it.  Enough  people  read  that." 

"I  know,"  he  said,  "but  this  is  much  worse. 
The  people  are  such  a  rotten,  insignificant  lot, 
and  nothing  ever  happens  except  a  continual 
piling  up  of  petty  detail.  Nobody  will  want  it." 

There's  another  idea  of  mine.  The  young  lady 
of  whom  I  have  spoken  tells  me  that  we  no  longer 
say,  "the  older  I  get,"  but  "the  longer  I  live." 
Well,  then,  the  longer  I  live,  the  more  clearly 
do  I  see  that  my  life  has  been  all  of  a  piece. 

Misfortunes  and  troubles  a  many  have  proved  me; 
One  or  two  women  (God  bless  them)  have  loved  me. 

I  don't  know  where  I  got  that  jingle,  maybe 
it's  Henley.  And  doubtless,  I've  got  it  pretty 

[73] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

much  twisted.  Anyhow,  I've  had,  in  full  meas 
ure,  my  share  of  that  hope  deferred  which 
maketh  the  heart  sick,  and  so  also  have  I  had 
many  a  black-eye  given  my  spirit.  But,  I  see 
it  now  as  plain  as  print,  all  that  has  happened 
to  me,  which  frequently  at  the  time  of  its  occur 
rence  I  thought  was  lamentable,  has  proved  to 
have  been  a  series  of  most  successful  contribu 
tions  to  the  march  of  my  years.  For,  more  times 
than  one,  when  my  life  has  appeared  to  me  (and 
to  all  observers )  to  have  been  quite  wrecked,  this 
has  but  been  like  (as  many  believe  of  that)  death 
in  this:  it  was  the  pains  of  birth  into  a  better 
world. 

This  turns  up  in  my  mind  the  subject  of  jobs, 
and  concerning  them  my  theory.  I  hold,  and 
I  hold  it  strongly,  that  (contrary  to  general  be 
lief)  it  is  well  for  a  man  (a  man,  that  is,  of 
good  caliber)  frequently  to  be  fired.  Of  course, 
in  the  day  of  the  decline  of  his  powers,  such  an 
incident  might  turn  out  to  be  a  very  sad  thing. 
But  when  health,  and  lust,  and  envy,  and  pride 
are  yet  strong  within  a  man,  such  a  happening 
is  a  jolt  in  an  upward  direction.  This  belief, 
at  any  rate,  is  the  result  of  my  observation — 
and  experience.  I  thank  the  mysterious  and 
[74] 


TARKINGTON  AND  THE  COSMOS 

beautiful  stars  that  I  have  been  "canned"  from 
a  number  of  "punk"  jobs,  where  otherwise  I 
might  be  now. 

But  that  is  not  all  that  I  think;  I  have  yet 
other  "thinks"  coming.  My  life,  as  I  said,  has 
been  all  of  a  piece.  Every  part  has  exactly  dove 
tailed  into  the  whole,  like  a  picture  puzzle  rightly 
put  together.  Without  this  there  could  not  have 
been  that.  And  what  is  more,  everything  that 
has  occurred  to  me  has  occurred  at  the  time 
proper  for  the  best  results  from  it. 

We  frequently  hear  said,  by  persons  who  have 
waited  long  for  it  to  come  down  heads,  "Now, 
why  couldn't  this  have  come  to  me  ten  (or  some 
thing  like  that)  years  ago?"  Nay!  believe  you 
me,  'twouldn't  have  been  so  well.  They  would 
not  then  have  been  prepared  to  receive  it  to  the 
best  advantage. 

In  fact  this  (whatever  it  was)  couldn't  have 
come  to  them  before  it  did.  Because,  if  any 
thing  can  be  more  clearly  seen  than  a  pike-staff 
on  a  hill,  it  is  that  our  lives  are  the  product  of 
a  preordained  design,  in  arrangement  the  result 
of  consummate  art,  and  to  wise  ends  which  we 
wot  not  of.  I  waved  my  cigarette,  for  (you  will 
admit)  I  had  spoken  remarkably  well. 

[75] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

"Exactly  the  opposite,"  said  Tarkington,  knit 
ting  his  brows,  "of  the  Conrad  philosophy." 
Deep  were  those  great  perpendicular  lines  in  his 
forehead  which  speak  of  his  habit  of  intense  con 
centration.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "it  does  seem  that 
the  palette  is  scraped,  and  often  the  scraping 
is  harsh,  always  to  make  one  a  better  workman. 

"And,  perhaps,"  he  added,  "if  Conrad  would 
look  more  into  himself,  instead  of  looking  on  at 
the  world  around  him,  he'd  get  that  idea  more." 

I  clapped  my  heels  against  the  sides  of  the 
hobby-horse  I  had  mounted,  as  Sterne  would  say, 
and  on  I  galloped. 

And  I  knew  that  certain  things  must  have 
been  laid  up  in  store  for  me,  before  they  hap 
pened,  for  of  them  I  have  had  strange  premoni 
tions.  One  instance,  this:  one  time,  a  young 
woman  whom  before  I  had  never  seen  (nor  of 
her  had  I  ever  heard)  walked  rapidly  past  me. 
I  hardly  saw  her  then,  as  toward  her  path  it 
happened  my  back  was  partly  turned.  I  felt, 
rather  than  saw  her,  go  by,  but  within  me  some 
where  I  got  a  sort  of  an  electric  jolt.  I  turned 
quickly  then  to  glance  after  her,  but  she  had 
passed  behind  a  stairway.  For  long,  I  forgot 
the  matter,  and  it  was  only  long  afterward  that 
[76] 


TARKINGTON  AND  THE  COSMOS 

I  remembered  it — sometime  after,  a  couple  of 
years  later,  this  young  women  had  come  as  closely 
perhaps  as  any  one  could  come  into  my  life. 

Then  take  the  matter  of  this  present  trip  of 
mine.  How  do  you  explain  that?  I  know  not 
how  many  months  before  I  was  suddenly  shot, 
so  to  say,  off  into  space,  an  idea  had  (fathered 
by  I  know  not  what)  taken  birth  in  my  mind. 
Flickering  at  first  was  its  life,  then  stronger 
and  stronger  it  grew,  until  there  no  longer  re 
mained  doubt  that  an  event  of  consequence  to 
me  was  approaching.  I  was  only  slightly  mis 
taken  in  the  matter  of  the  time  of  its  occurrence. 

The  idea  was  this:  that  this  coming  autumn 
(though  it  came  in  the  spring)  something  new 
in  my  career  was  to  happen  to  me  for  my  good. 
I  didn't  know  whether  (as  has  several  times  hap 
pened  to  me  before)  some  one  was  to  come  along 
and  handsomely  present  me  with  a  much  better 
job.  Or  whether  I  should  suddenly  be  moved 
to  strike  out  and  get  one.  Or  what.  But  I  reck 
oned  up  my  years  to  my  coming  birthday  in 
July;  and  I  knew,  as  well  as  you  know  that  you 
are  sitting  there,  that  a  time  was  near  at  hand 
when  whatever  force  it  is  that  controls  my  life 
had  decreed  that  I  must  be  moving  on. 

[77] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

A  funny  thing,  too,  this :  oh !  some  months  ago 
it  was,  that  the  thought  began  to  dawn  on  me 
that  it  was  about  time  for  a  fellow  in  the  fading 
of  his  thirties  to  think  about  unlocking  the  ac 
cumulated  riches  of  his  life  and  to  write  his  au 
tobiography.  I  determined  to  begin,  but  the 
days,  and  the  weeks,  went  by,  and  I  never  found 
the  time,  or  in  my  little  leisure  had  I  the  strength, 
to  make  a  start  upon  the  thing.  But  all  the 
while  I  knew  that  pretty  soon  I  should  write  an 
autobiography. 

Then,  on  a  sudden,  in  pops  this  man  who  owns 
THE  BOOKMAN  (along  with  considerable  other 
publishing  property)  and  says,  in  effect  (though 
unless  he's  a  clairvoyant,  he  couldn't  have  known 
a  bit  of  what  was  in  my  mind),  clear  out  now, 
go  write  your  old  autobiography,  and  don't  let 
me  see  you  around  here  for  at  least  three 
months.  So  came  to  pass  that  which  was,  as  my 
friend  James  Huneker  puts  it,  on  the  laps  of 
the  "Gallery  Gods."  And  if,  after  its  fashion, 
this  book  isn't  a  (spiritual)  autobiography,  what, 
I'd  like  to  know,  is  it? 

This  brings  us  to  another  thing.  I  am  writ 
ing  this  book  because  I've  got  to,  not  because  I 
particularly  want  to;  I'd  much  rather  (this 
[78]  ' 


TARKIKGTON  AND  THE  COSMOS 

spring  weather)  be  loafing  around  and  inviting 
my  soul,  or  enjoying  in  greater  number  the  mul 
titude  of  social  invitations  so  kindly  extended  to 
me.  And  the  force  pressing  upon  me  which 
drives  me  to  write  the  book,  comes  not  from  with 
out  (I  could  get  by,  doing  scrappier  stuff,  much 
less  in  amount  and  easier  to  do) ,  but  from  within. 
It  may  be  a  "punk"  book.  Whether  or  not  it 
is  that,  indeed,  is  little  on  my  mind.  The  point 
is,  that  I  can  have  no  peace  with  the  world,  or 
myself,  or  the  devil  until  the  durn  thing's  done. 

So  when  we  say  that  heredity  and  environment 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing  fixes  up  our  affairs  for 
us  ahead  of  time,  we  do  not  mean  that  we  can 
let  up  striving  any  the  less. 

"Sure,"  said  Mr.  Tarkington,  nodding,  "you 
don't  just  go  and  lie  down  on  a  sofa." 

"Get  up!"  said  I,  to  my  hobby-horse,  and  on 
we  cantered. 

Now,  when  my  most  interesting  young  femi 
nine  friend,  the  Christian  Scientist,  promulgates 
the  doctrine  that  the  matter  rests  with  us  (as 
we  have  the  power)  to  shape  our  environment, 
rather  than  that  we  must  remain  in  the  clutch  of 
it — how  am  I  going  to  get  around  that?  'Tis 
simple  enough  1 

[79] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

Why  does  one  man  born  in  a  squalid,  debased, 
and  illiterate  environment  remain  in  it?  And 
why  does  another  man  entered  in  the  same  sort 
of  show  drive  his  way  out  of  it?  Because  in  the 
one  man  there  was  implanted  a  mysterious  some 
thing  which  drove  him  to  force  his  way  out,  and 
in  the  other  man  (heaven  alone  knows  why!) 
there  wasn't. 

"Decided  long  before  they  were  born,"  agreed 
Mr.  Tarkington. 

In  the  matter,  however,  of  whether  your  pain 
is  in  your  finger  or  in  your  mind,  he  was  some 
what  inclined  to  think  that  "they"  are  pretty 
much  in  the  right  about  it.  For  pain  could  only 
be  a  thing  you  were  conscious  of — a  sensation. 

And  so  the  talk  turned  again. 

It  is,  at  any  rate  (to  use  an  excellent  phrase 
frequently  employed  by  my  excellent  friend, 
Royal  Cortissoz),  a  "ponderable  idea."  That 
is,  I  could  not,  you  see,  have  died  that  April  day 
on  Illinois  Street.  For  no  man  can  die  until  his 
course  is  run,  until  (in  other  words)  he  has  no 
further  need  of  this  world.  There  was,  pre 
sumably,  yet  much  for  me  to  do  and  to  learn. 
Nonsense!  Why  is  a  tiny  baby  snatched  away? 
Why  the  senseless,  as  it  seems,  loss  to  us  of  such 
[80] 


TARKINGTON  AND  THE  COSMOS 

brilliant  young  minds  as  Rupert  Brooke,  Joyce 
Kilmer  (my  more  than  brother),  and  unnum 
bered  others?  Why  does  a  man  at  the  height  of 
his  powers  meet,  as  we  say,  an  "untimely  death"? 
Why  does  another,  never  (as  again  we  say)  "of 
much  account,"  linger  on  to  ninety  years,  a  score 
of  them  bedridden?  Why  disasters,  by  battle, 
by  sea,  starvation,  fire  and  flood,  to  wipe  out  hu 
man  lives  to  the  number  of  the  population  of 
cities?  Why  does  one  man  bear,  as  the  term  is, 
a  "charmed  life,"  and  walk  all  unscathed  through 
a  boiling  furnace?  And  why  does  another 
("fated,"  as  we  sometimes  feel)  get  plugged  at 
the  first  shot?  I  hasten  to  assure  you,  I  do  not 
know. 

Tarkington,  who  had  been  rather  slouching 
forward,  quickly  straightened  up  at  the  words, 
"I  do  not  know."  Perhaps  he  was  astonished 
that  I  admitted  there  was  anything  I  could  not 
tell  him. 

A  number  of  years  ago,  I  had  the  good  for 
tune  to  be  about  a  good  deal  with  the  late  John 
H.  Twachtman.  I  remember  one  time,  when 
somebody  said  to  him  of  such  or  such  a  painter, 
that  he  had  never  done  but  one  good  thing,  and 
that  was  "by  accident."  "No  beautiful  thing," 

[81] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

was  Twachtman's  reply,  "was  ever  made  by  ac 
cident."  Quite  sol  And  may  it  not  also  be  that 
no  man  ever,  in  the  newspaper  headline  phrase, 
"meets  death  by  accident"? 

"That  is  my  position  exactly,"  said  Tarking- 
ton,  going  back  to  the  concluding  words  of  my 
preceding  paragraph,  "in  all  this  spiritism  busi 
ness:  we  don't  know  enough  about  the  thing  to 
know  anything  about  it." 

He  even  startled  me  by  the  extent  of  his  read 
ing  in  the  more  important  literature  of  the  sub 
ject,  which  (so  well  has  he  coordinated  it)  he 
briefly  reviewed  in  a  lump.  He  has  seen  tables 
moved  without  any  explainable  agency.  Asserts 
that  because  you  cannot  explain  why  a  table 
should  want  to  cut  up,  it  does  not  follow  that  it 
is  inspired  to  do  so  by  the  dead.  Has  heard  vari 
ous  kinds  of  "raps,"  coming  from  no  source  dis 
cernible  to  him.  Regards  that  as  evidence  only 
that  raps  can  come,  or  be  made  to  come,  in  a 
manner  mysterious  to  you  and  me.  Has  seen 
"messages"  "received."  I  do  not  recall  whether 
or  not  he  said  he  had  ever  seen  any  of  the  filmy 
apparitions  which  are  taken  to  be  "spirits."  But 
'tis  no  matter  about  that. 

His  conclusion  is  simply  that  there  is  in  the 
[82] 


TARKINGTON  AND  THE  COSMOS 

world  some  force,  or  power,  or  what  noty  which 
we  do  not  now  understand,  and  which  "we  are 
yet  a  long  way  off  from  knowing  anything 
about."  As  to  "communications,"  he  made  the 
remark,  highly  interesting  to  me,  that  we  should 
not  scoff  at  them  because  they  may  be,  to  us, 
silly,  foolish,  and  without  any  point — because  we 
cannot  possibly  know  what  a  plane  of  intelli 
gence  exists  among  spirits  departed  from  our 
sort  of  life;  if  such  spirits  there  be.  Finally,  he 
affirmed  that  so  far  in  all  our  contact  with  this 
phenomena  there  has  never  been  established  a 
case  of  "identity" — not  one.  "But,"  with  an  up 
ward  flinging  gesture,  "of  course,  if  we  could 
find  only  one,  it's  all  off — that  would  be 
enough." 

A  clock  struck  twelve. 

And  so,  to  modernize  young  Franklin  P. 
Adams's  great  friend  (and  constant  source  of 
copy) ,  Pepys,  in  a  cab  with  my  host  back  again 
to  my  lodgings. 


[83] 


CHAPTER  VI 

RILEY  AND  A  COLORED  BARBER 

THE  barbers  in  this  shop  (this  is  the  follow 
ing  day),  as  is  frequently  the  case  in  In 
dianapolis,  are  what  is  generally  called  "colored" 
men.  The  barber  I  drew  was  a  man  after  my 
own  heart,  that  is,  he  was  what  Carlyle,  I  be 
lieve  it  was,  called  a  communicating  animal.  I 
told  him,  by  way  of  starting  the  ball,  that  I 
had  recently  come  from  New  York.  He  said 
that  when  they  used  to  have  excursion  rates  with 
stop-over  privileges,  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
spending  a  couple  of  weeks  in  New  York  every 
summer.  He  added  that  he  didn't  know  whether 
he  would  care  to  go  there  now,  as  since  the  coun 
try  had  gone  dry  he  probably  would  not  have  so 
gay  a  time  as  formerly. 

He  was  not  averse  to   prohibition,  he  said, 

as  he  thought  it  was  rather  good  for  him, — at  any 

rate,  it  caused  him  to  save  more  money.     For 

the  past  five  years,  he  told  me,  he  had  been  pretty 

[84] 


RILEY  AND  A  COLORED  BARBER 

straight,  but  there  had  been  a  time  in  his  life 
when  the  situation  was,  as  he  put  it,  "perilous." 
He  was  the  kind  of  man,  I  say,  that  I  love,  for 
he  talked  (as  I  do)  about  himself,  open,  frank, 
his  life  an  open  book  to  any  that  would  listen. 

Shaved,  he  asked  me  if  I  would  have  a  face 
massage.  I  did  not  feel  that  I  stood  much  in 
need  of  such  a  thing,  but  I  was  not  willing  to 
part  quickly  with  the  society  of  a  fellow  of  such 
golden  talk  as  his.  He  explained  to  me  the  ritual 
of  his  domestic  life  on  Sundays.  He  and  his  wife 
— there  were,  he  said,  only  two  of  them — went 
to  church  in  the  morning.  Then  they  came  home 
and  read  the  papers,  or  perhaps  took  "a  nap." 
They  usually  had  friends  in  to  dinner,  and  after 
ward  cranked  up  the  Victrola.  In  the  evening 
they  usually  started  out  for  the  "picture  shows," 
and  sometimes  did  three  of  them  before  again 
going  home. 

Now  as  I  sat  in  the  barber  chair  and  this  dark- 
skinned  and  very  real  gentleman  attended  me,  I 
envied  that  estimable  man.  His  life  was  whole 
some  and  fine — and  he  was  happy.  Whereas 
I,  God  help  me !  as  far  back,  nearly,  as  my  mem 
ory  can  reach,  I  have  been  storm-tossed  and  mis 
erable  ;  I  have  found  for  my  soul  no  abiding  city. 

[85] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

There  was  a  day  (as  George  Moore  says  of 
himself)  when  my  dream  was  painting.  I  came 
to  draw  with  more  than  passable  art,  but  always 
I  hungered  after  perfection;  and  in  this  world 
but  a  very  few  things  done  by  men  in  a  gen 
eration  attain  to  that.  Then  after  some  years, 
it  was  literature  that  claimed  me.  And  I  came 
to  write,  as  I  believe,  with  more  than  passable 
art.  But  I  was  possessed  by  an  illusion.  I 
thought  that  the  pursuit  of  truth  and  beauty,  and 
to  seek  for  the  accomplishment  of  fame,  was 
enough ;  certainly  it  is  a  long  and  a  hard,  a  very 
hard  task  for  a  man  to  set  himself.  And,  indeed, 
there  have  been  men,  great  artists  among  them, 
who  have  lived  by  these  things,  and,  though  ab 
solute  perfection  has  mostly  ever  fled  before 
them,  have  died  reasonably  content  with  their 
achievements. 

In  the  delectable  and  enduring  novel  by  the 
Reverend  Laurence  Sterne,  "Tristram  Shandy, 
Gentleman,"  when  the  messenger  arrives  to  an 
nounce  that  Bobby  is  dead,  the  fat  scullion  ex 
claims:  "So  am  not  I!"  Well,  as  to  being  con 
tent  with  the  pursuit  of  literature,  there  came  a 
time,  not  so  long  ago,  when  I  had  to  say  to  my 
self,  so  am  not  I.  I  had  even  attained  to  (what 
[86] 


RILEY  AND  A  COLORED  BARBER 

for  years  I  had  night  and  day  burned  to  have) 
something  of  a  literary  reputation.  I  confess 
that  in  my  heart  this  is  little  to  me  now.  I  am 
ambitious  in  the  sense  that  I  cannot  write  any 
thing  at  all  without  doing  it  as  well  as  I  am  able. 
And  to  be  able  to  make  anything  like  literature, 
and  to  read  with  gusto  great  literature,  is  well 
enough,  for  contact  with  literature  at  its  best  is, 
of  course,  capable  of  a  vastly  ennobling  influence 
on  the  mind.  But  literature,  books  and  writing, 
began  to  fail  me.  There  was  in  this  world,  I 
came  to  know,  something  else,  something  more, 
of  which  my  spirit  had  need.  As  time  went  on, 
great  need.  So  it  was  I  came  to  think  much  on 
religion.  Perhaps  I  should  have  turned,  as  a 
frustrated  child  to  its  nurse,  to  the  church.  But 
what  church?  What  could  I  believe?  Had  I — 
and  this,  it  seems  to  me,  in  such  matters  a  very 
necessary  thing — the  religious  temperament?* 
And  how  would  I  work  in  church  harness?  To 
these  questions  I  have  no  answer  yet.  But  in 
this  I  have  faith :  as  the  melons  ripen  on  the  vine, 
and  fruit  upon  the  tree,  so  in  due  session  shall 
my  soul  reach  its  destined  maturity. 

In  seeking  for  one  interest  which  I  had  not, 
and  which  might  be  the  thing  which  would  give 

[87] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

me  the  new  zest  in  living  that  I  needed,  the  most 
curious,  and  even  comical,  ideas  occurred  to  me. 
One  of  these  ideas,  though  I  did  not  think  it 
comical  at  the  time,  was  this:  I  have  never  paid 
any  particular  attention  to  how  I  got  myself  up 
in  the  matter  of  dress,  whether  or  not  my  suit 
was  well-pressed,  my  shoes  newly  polished,  and 
so  on.  I  have  worn  the  same  sort  of  collar,  and 
had  my  hair  cut  and  parted  it  in  the  same  way, 
for  years  and  years,  regardless  of  the  changing 
fashions  in  these  things.  And  whenever,  at  pe 
riods  remote  one  from  another,  I  bought  a  new 
necktie,  I  had  been  in  the  habit  of  saying  to  the 
haberdasher  man:  "Gim'me  a  tie  just  like  the 
one  I  have  on."  Also  I  have  associated  more 
with  men  than  with  women,  and  the  conventions 
of  polite  society  have  been  to  me  of  little  mo 
ment. 

Well,  I  got  a  great  notion  that  a  very  spirited 
thing  for  me  to  do  would  be  suddenly  to  become 
very  fashionable.  I  never,  I  believe  I  can  say, 
have  done  anything  in  my  life  that  I  did  not  do 
well.  And  my  idea  was  not  to  become  merely 
very  respectable,  mildly  fashionable.  I  was  to 
be  a  regular  sensation.  I  was  to  out-fop  Max 
Beerbohm.  I  regretted  that  I  lived  in  America. 
[88] 


RILEY  AND  A  COLORED  BARBER 

I  wished  I  were  a  Londoner,  so  that  I  could  wear 
a  top-hat  and  a  cutaway  coat  in  the  daytime,  on 
weekdays  at  business.  I  would  be  equally  per 
fect  in  the  art  of  dress  with  young  Wales.  I 
brooded  a  good  deal  on  this  matter,  and  then  the 
mood  passed.  I  was  afraid  that  here  again  an 
other  fine  art  would,  and  that  perhaps  soon,  fail 
me.  Indeed,  I  saw  written  on  the  wall,  that  the 
spirit  of  man  could  not  live  by  art  alone. 

However,  as  in  the  matter  of  my  double-bar 
reled  suitcase,  I'll  take  no  further  thought  as  to 
this.  For  *now  I  know  that  on  a  day  appropriate 
to  the  transaction,  when  I  shall  be,  it  may  be,  go 
ing  along  the  highway  on  quite  another  errand 
bent,  I  shall,  like  Paul,  suddenly  see  in  a  window 
of  my  mind,  that  which  I  need  to  fulfill  my  soul's 
good. 

But  I  must  return  to  my  friend,  my  barber. 
I  say  "my  friend"  not  lightly,  for  those  that  one 
has  are  taken,  or  drift  whither  away;  or  again 
by  some  mischance  or  misunderstanding,  the 
bonds  are  loosened  or  broken ;  and  it  was  the  wise 
counsel  of  a  very  wise  man  when  Samuel  John 
son  cautioned  us  to  "keep  our  friendships  in  good 
repair."  He  told  me,  my  barber,  that  he  had 
been  experimenting  with  making  "the  stuff"  at 

[89] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

home  now.  He  had  produced  several  concoc 
tions,  not  bad;  but  the  best  of  all  he  had  made, 
and  that  was  very  fine,  was  some  apricot  brandy. 
But  this  he  kept  for  himself  alone ;  he  gave  none 
of  it  away,  for  did  he  stand  his  friends  a  treat 
from  his  store  it  would  become  noised  about, 
"Jim  has  something  great  up  at  his  house,  you'd 
better  look  in."  No,  indeed,  he  gave  his  friends 
"a  little  cake  or  something,"  but  he  kept  his  bot 
tle  for  his  own  pleasure.  A  good  man,  and  a 
shrewd  one.  I  wish  him  well. 

Then  I  went  out  from  that  barber  shop  where 
so  much  wisdom  had  been  given  me.  And  all  the 
air  was  ringing  with  the  gay  sounds  of  a  busy, 
prosperous,  happy,  beautiful  city.  The  streets 
were  filled  with  my  own  kind,  people,  hurrying 
to  and  fro.  Motor-cars  were  parked  in  battal 
ions  everywhere.  After  several  blocks  of  peer 
ing  into  faces,  I  came  and  stood  before  the  office 
building  of  the  Indianapolis  News,  and  read, 
amid  a  throng  likewise  engaged,  the  bulletins 
posted  in  the  windows  there.  I  read  the  weather 
forecast,  about  what  Marshal  Foch  was  up  to 
now,  the  present  doings  of  the  Marion  County 
Grand  Jury,  and  the  latest  activities  of  the  Sinn 
Feiners.  Then  I  came  upon  a  sheet  racy  of  the 
[90] 


RILEY  AND  A  COLORED  BARBER 

soil.  It  said:  "Four  horses  and  a  cow  burn  to 
death  and  auto  destroyed  when  barn  burns  in 
Edgemont  Street  to-day." 

Well,  I  thought,  being  at  the  gentleman's 
front  door,  I'd  go  up  and  see  the  editor  of  the 
paper,  Louis  Howland  (brother  of  Hewitt  Han 
son)  ,  whom  I  had  met  one  time  before.  I  diffi 
dently  asked  the  office  boy,  following  my  custom 
in  the  East  (where  it  is  no  slight  trick  to  break 
into  the  sanctum  of  the  editor  of  a  great  news 
paper)  ,  if  he  thought  it  would  be  possible  for  me 
in  time  to  see  Mr.  Howland.  With  a  large,  open- 
hearted  gesture  toward  the  proper  door,  he  re 
plied:  "Walk  right  in." 

I  found  him,  himself  typing  an  editorial  on 
yellow  copy  paper.  A  fine  Johnsonian  figure  of 
a  man,  with  a  graying  shock  of  hair,  not  too  well- 
dressed — for  which  (among  other  things)  I 
greatly  liked  him.  I  was  further  attracted  to 
him  when  I  found  that  he  belonged  to  the  broth 
erhood:  had  died  several  times  from  acute  indi 
gestion.  A  memorable  figure,  type  in  the  tra 
dition  of  our  line  of  great  editors,  and  esteemed 
in  his  profession,  I  believe,  as  one  of  the  best 
editorial  writers  in  the  country. 

While  I  was  in  the  shop,  why  not  look  in  at 

[91] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

what  those  there  call  the  Idle  Ward  and  see  my 
old  friend  "Bill"  Herschell?  Whose  name,  when 
printed,  but  never  otherwise,  is  William.  A 
journalist-poet  of  city  life  and  homely  things, 
and  far  from  a  bad  one.  A  jovial  human  being 
somewhat  on  the  Don  Marquis  order,  only 
louder. 

He  made  me  known  to  "Kin"  Hubbard,  a 
sharer  of  these  quarters,  who  seventeen  years 
ago,  created  "Abe  Martin,"  and  has  kept  him 
going  strong  ever  since.  And  here  I  got  quite 
a  shock.  I  suppose  I  had  fancied  there  would  be 
something  at  least  a  shade  homespun  in  himself 
in  the  originator  of  the  Brown  County  philoso 
pher  with  the  bark  on.  The  immaculate  gentle 
man  with  the  aristocratic  face,  whom  I  met,  took 
from  his  upper  waistcoat  pocket  a  pair  of  these 
fly-open  kind  of  shell-rimmed  glasses,  and  ad 
justing  them  to  his  patrician  nose,  conversed 
with  a  sort  of  quiet,  old-world  dignity.  In  the 
open  air,  and  in  theater  lobbies,  he  carries,  ac 
cording  to  Herschell,  a  "blonde"  cane. 

+        *        +        +'        +        •* 

The  presence  of  Riley  is  still  strong  in  the 
community  of  his  friends  and  neighbors.    Tark- 
ington,  Hewitt  Rowland,  and  numerous  others, 
[92] 


RILEY  AND  A  COLORED  BARBER 

frequently  interlard  their  talk  with  such  remarks 
as,  "as  Riley  would  have  put  it,"  or  "as  Riley 
used  to  say." 

"Speaking  of  'out-fopping'  Beerbohm,"  re 
marked  Dr.  McCulloch,  as  he  reclined  on  a 
couch  in  an  inner  office,  "reminds  me:  It  was 
many  years  ago.  Riley  took  it  into  his  head 
to  out-fop  Amos — Amos  Walker,  one  of  his 
early  managers.  He  quarreled  with  him  later, 
as  he  did  with  all  his  managers.  Well,  Amos 
was  the  most  perfect  ever  seen:  spats  in  season, 
tail  coat,  neatly  striped  gray  trousers,  ornamen 
tal  vest,  with  little  vines  on  trellises  climbing  up, 
beautiful  tie,  stick-pin  with  a  bird's  claw  clasp 
ing  a  stone. 

"Amos  used  to  go  around  to  the  old  Marion 
Club,  forerunner  here  of  the  present  University 
Club.  There  one  day  he  saw  for  the  first  time 
some  of  the  old  boys  playing  dominoes.  He 
stood  for  quite  a  while  behind  one  of  them." 

(Amos,  it  appeared,  stuttered  in  his  speech. 
I  cannot  undertake  to  render  Dr.  McCulloch's 
inimitable  imitation  of  the  stutter.) 

"Finally  Amos  said:  'Might  I  ask  what  the 
game  is  you're  playing?' 

[93] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

"The  player  before  him  turned  his  eyes  slowly 
upward:  'Dominoes,'  he  uttered. 

"  'New  game?'  inquired  Amos. 

6  £Oh!  no,'  replied  the  player,  Very  old  game; 
must  be  fifty,  a  hundred  years,  maybe  centuries 
old.' 

'Well,'  said  Amos,  'when  I  was  a  young  man 
I  joined  the  army,  not  so  much  perhaps  from 
patriotism,  as  because  of  a  love  of  excitement. 
But,'  he  added,  'that  was  before  I  had  ever  seen 
this  game  played.' 

"When  Amos  died,"  continued  McCulloch, 
"several  mutual  friends  went  to  Riley  and  said 
to  him :  'Now  this  quarrel  between  you  and  Amos 
has  been  a  cause  of  deep  distress  to  a  great  many 
of  us — to  your  friends  and  to  Amos's  friends. 
But  now  that  Amos  is  gone  it  should  be  all  over, 
forgotten.  Why  don't  you  go  see  Amos's  widow, 
and  make  peace  with  her?' 

"Silence  for  a  good  while.  Then  Riley  said 
he  would.  So  he  went  to  Amos's  house,  up  the 
path,  and  knocked.  Amos's  widow  opened  the 
door,  and,  when  she  saw  her  husband's  old  en 
emy,  gave  a  backward  start. 

"Riley  bowed  low,  and  taking  from  his  button 
hole  a  flower,  one  such  as  he  always  wore,  with 
|[94] 


RILEY  AND  A  COLORED  BARBER 

out-stretched  arm  presented  it  to  her,  turned, 
and  in  silence  walked  away." 

******* 

At  the  Club  I  was  winding  up  the  last  of  my 
correspondence  from  Indianapolis.  Tarkington 
entered  the  room,  and  when  he  saw  me,  dropped 
on  a  seat  nearby.  "Somebody  it  was,"  he  said, 
"I  can't  remember  who  he  was,  who  said  some 
thing  like,  all  nature  works  for  the  good  of  a  few 
great  men."  Whether  he  was  ironical,  or  hu 
morous,  or  serious,  I  cannot  say — there  was  noth 
ing  in  his  face  to  show. 

******* 

It  is,  as  doubtless  you  know,  bad  luck  to  leave 
a  city  without  dining  at  your  last  dinner  there 
with  a  beautiful  woman.  And  that,  of  course, 
explains  my  misadventure.  I  had,  indeed,  taken 
the  precaution  to  arrange  for  such  a  dinner,  but, 
at  the  last  moment,  the  lady  failed  me. 

I  wound  my  watch  the  night  before  my  de 
parture  very  thoroughly.  So  thoroughly  indeed 
did  I  wind  it,  that  (though  I  had  not  noticed  this 
in  the  morning  when  I  arose)  when,  at  about  the 
time  I  felt  I  should  be  returning  to  my  hotel 
to  pack  my  bag,  I  looked  at  it,  the  thousand- 
times-confounded  thing  had  ceased  to  go. 

[95] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

It  was  dramatic!  A  taxi  whirl  to  my  hotel. 
"What  time  do  you  go,  Sir?"  said  the  bell-boy, 
as  we  flung  everything  handy  into  my  bag. 
"Twelve  two,"  I  sputtered;  "strap  it!" 

"It's  nearly  that  now,  Sir,"  said  the  boy;  "I 
don't  think  you  can  make  it." 

Make  it?    Dramatic?    It  was  tragic! 

You  see,  it  was  like  this:  I  was  not  this  time 
to  ride  (like  Routledge)  alone.  No:  I  was  to 
have  the  society,  for  something  like  seven  hours> 
of  an  exceedingly  good-looking  and  highly-in 
telligent  young  woman.  "The  train,"  I  declared, 
"will  be  a  moment  late.  It  has  to  be.  Shoot!" 

"Three  seconds  ago,"  said  the  gateman;  "next 
train  for  St.  Louis  a  quarter  to  midnight." 

Well  (it  took  me  several  hours  to  come  to  the 
philosophic  conclusion)  perhaps  it  was  better  so. 
One  can't  tell  what  havoc  might  not  be  wrought 
in  the  mind  by  the  society,  for  seven  hours  at  a 
stretch,  of  such  a  young  woman. 


[96] 


CHAPTER  VII 

BOYHOOD  OF  THE  HERO 

NOW,  it  is  always  well  in  documents  of  this 
nature  to  sprinkle  round  a  fair  amount  of 
sex  appeal.  I  should  not  undertake  to  defy  so 
cardinal  a  principle  of  success  in  literature  as 
that.  And  so,  this  chapter  will  contain  (please 
be  patient:  I  mean  in  its  proper  place  in  the 
narrative)  The  Strange  Story  of  the  Gentleman 
Who  Lost  his  Shoes  for  the  Sake  of  a  Woman. 

I  love  a  ship.  But  I  hate  a  train.  And,  though 
I  hate  a  number  of  (evil)  things  in  this  world,  I 
cannot  at  the  moment  put  my  finger,  so  to  say, 
on  any  one  thing  which  I  hate  more  than  I  do 
traveling  on  a  train  at  night.  Naturally,  when 
you  do  not  like  a  thing,  neither  does  it  like  you. 
I  had  a  miserable  time  on  that  despicable  mid 
night  train  from  Indianapolis  to  St.  Louis.  No 
sleep,  not  any  to  speak  of — real  sleep.  Decid 
edly  uncomfortable,  wretched  state  of  mind. 

Now,  in  this  world  for  a  number  of  years  I 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

have  observed  a  very  curious  thing,  and  one 
which,  so  far  as  at  the  present  instant  I  recall, 
has  not  been  commented  upon  by  any  one  else. 
And  that  thing  is  this :  When  what  are  common 
ly  called  adverse  circumstances  have  most  insis 
tently  pressed  upon  me,  and  when  my  situation 
has  been  such  that,  logically,  I  should  say,  my 
mind  should  have  been  dulled  and  rendered  bar 
ren  by  unhappiness,  at  such  time  (and  with  me 
such  periods  have  been  many)  has  my  mind  most 
readily  turned  in  on  those  peculiar  qualities  of 
the  mind  which,  after  all,  render  a  man  quite 
independent  of  the  chances  of  outward  fortune. 
So  again,  on  this  distressing  night,  at  length  did 
the  world  about  me  drop  from  my  consciousness, 
and  my  thoughts  become  filled  with  glow  and 
color. 

Those  thoughts  I  will  tell  you — at  the  time 
when  I  get  around  to  them.  For  when  a  man 
sits  down  to  write  such  a  book  as  this  he  is  not, 
to  mix  the  metaphor,  continually  to  keep  his  eye 
on  the  ball,  to  be  over-hot  after  getting  forward 
er  with  the  tale.  One  spark  strikes  out  another; 
there  is  altogether  much  to  be  said,  about  a  va 
riety  of  things ;  and  if  a  man  has  a  notion  for  all 
the  while  keeping  track  of  the  idea  he  starts  out 
[98] 


BOYHOOD  OF  THE  HERO 

with — well,  he  had  much  better  write  articles 
for  the  papers,  or  things  to  go  into  magazines, 
or  a  novel,  or  something  like  that. 

Speaking  of  happiness,  or  what  is  commonly 
meant  by  the  word  happiness;  wasn't  I?  Very 
well.  As  I  have  just  shown  you,  the  idea  that 
happiness  "gets  you"  anything  of  actual  value 
to  you  is  a  fallacy.  I  could  still  further  prove 
this  fact  by  a  brief,  five-hour  survey  of  the 
world's  history.  Hardly  worth  the  bother  to  do 
that.  Anyhow,  all  the  proof  you  need  of  this, 
are  the  following  statements:  when  you  are 
happy,  usually  you  do  not  realize  that  you  are 
happy.  Dr.  Johnson,  who  had  a  considerable 
flair  for  commenting  upon  life,  declared  that  "no 
man  was  ever  completely  happy  except  when  he 
was  drunk."  And,  third,  when  you  are  (as  you 
suppose)  dreadfully  unhappy,  much  later  on 
when,  through  the  rosy  haze  of  distance,  you  re 
flect  back  upon  this  time,  it  always  seems  a  very 
happy  one,  and  exists  as  a  valuable  memory. 

What  I  was  going  to  say,  however,  was  that 
on  that  train  my  life  of  long  ago  (in  the  happy 
way  it  has)  unrolled  to  me  in  pictures  which  had 
been  far  from  my  thoughts  for  many  years. 

Back  in  the  tender  spring  of  my  life,  I  was 

[99] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

fond  of  reading,  immensely  so.  In  those  days 
I  liked  the  stuff  with  a  strong  kick  in  it — and 
would  willingly  take  no  other  kind  of  literature. 
And  there  was  plenty  of  that  sort  of  thing  going 
then;  at  any  rate,  the  particular  kind  of  punch 
this  sort  of  fiction  had  satisfied  me  then.  I  got 
out  of  the  public  library  all  the  Jack  Hazard 
series  there,  one  fast  following  in  my  hands  upon 
another;  I  went  through  in  rapid  succession  all 
the  books  of  one  J.  T.  Trowbridge ;  and  the  com 
plete  works  of  divers  other  authors  celebrated 
in  their  fashion. 

These  stories  would  do;  they  had  their  point 
of  merit,  I  thought.  But  they  were  not  all  to 
the  mustard.  There  was  a  kind  of  intellectual 
strong  drink  for  strong  men  which  was  to  be 
had,  at  ten  cents  a  throw,  in  the  place  of  "Billy" 
Berterman — as  he  was  famed  the  world  over  (our 
world,  I  mean).  For  the  adult  trade  Billy  de 
livered  newspapers  in  a  hand-barrow  from  his 
store  on  Massachusetts  Avenue.  Indeed,  all 
things  to  all  men,  Bill.  In  the  interests  of  that 
portion  of  his  clientele  which  was  not  quite  ju 
venile  nor  yet  quite  adult  he  carried  a  local,  por 
nographic  weekly  called,  if  I  correctly  remem 
ber  the  name,  The  People,  now,  happily  (in 
[100] 


BOYHOOD  OF  THE  HERO 

the  course  of  the  moral  progress  of  American 
society)  become  defunct. 

Well,  a  little  matter  of  twenty-five  years  (or 
something  like  that)  had  been  torji  *>J£  the  cal-' 
endar.  And  (so  works  his  antics  that  c^brat^d; . 
humorist,  Time)  stood  before  Billy's  window 
(shrunken  in  effect  and  shabby  now  almost  be 
yond  recognition)  a  human  being — quite  a  differ 
ent  human  being,  true  indeed,  but  bearing  quite 
the  same  name  as  one  who  had  stood  there  so  oft 
before.  And,  hung  from  a  wire  in  that  window, 
was  a  fly-specked,  paper-covered  story  book.  It 
bore  the  title,  "  Young  Wild  West  and  the  Mine 
Girl,  or  the  Secret  Band  of  Silver  Shaft."  On 
its  face  was  what  I  suppose  to-day  I  might  call 
a  frontispiece — at  any  rate,  an  illustration,  and 
one  done  in  exactly  the  same  style,  presenting 
almost  the  same  scene,  and  in  execution  as  inno 
cent  of  anything  like  art,  as  those  so  familiar  to 
me  in  the  early  ages  of  the  world,  my  world. 

I  remember  when,  and  with  what  intense  ea 
gerness,  I  read  Mr.  Hornung's  stories  about  the 
celebrated  Mr.  Raffles.  There  was  a  gentleman 
there,  in  those  stories,  familiarly  called  "Bunny." 
Sort  of  a  Doctor  Watson,  as  I  recall  him — the 
stories  themselves  have  almost  quite  gone  from 

[101] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

my  mind.  And  when  anything  occurred  which 
vividly  reminded  him  of  days  agone,  Raffles 
would  exclaim:  "It  takes  me  back,  Bunny;  it 
takes  me -back!" 

J :  So  with  Billy's  dilapidated  window.  It  is — 
for  an  instant  to  digress — a  book  little  read,  I 
believe;  but  it  is  one  of  Thackeray's  very  best: 
that  early,  exceedingly  picaresque  novel  of  dash 
ing,  pounding  energy,  in  which  the  flashing  gen 
tleman  who  plays  the  title-role,  Barry  Lyndon, 
in  one  of  his  occasional  moments  of  reflection  ex 
claimed:  "We  never  altogether  forget  anything 
that  has  happened  in  our  lives!"  No!  Back 
to  me  in  a  flood  of  light  those  scenes  so  long 
buried  deep  under  how  many  layers  of  my  mem 
ory!  In  effect,  I  sat  (in  this  darkened,  rolling, 
upper  berth)  as  before  a  comic  stage  and  viewed 
the  drama  I  played  so  seriously  as  a  small  boy. 
"God  help  thee!  How  art  thou  changed,  Elia!" 
And  yet,  I  don't  know!  Does'  one  ever 
change?  On  the  whole,  I  am  much  inclined  to 
think  not.  Not  all  the  years  can  make  a  silk 
purse  out  of  a  sow's  ear.  And  a  diamond,  a 
decade  rolled  in  mud,  is  a  diamond  still.  Well, 
as  to  that,  "Take  it  or  leave  it."  It  is  not  my 
business  to  instruct  you,  or  any  one.  There  is 
[102] 


BOYHOOD  OF  THE  HERO 

only  one  thing  in  this  world  I  know  anything 
about:  That  is  myself;  and  I  can  only  tell  my 
story.  This,  I  am  persuaded,  has  the  merits 
(whatever  these  things  are  worth)  of  candor  as 
to  the  author  of  these  pages  and  of  truth  in  his 
meager  impressions  of  the  world.  By  the  way, 
however,  many  a  well-established  work  of  liter 
ary  art  is  built  (is  it  not?)  upon  no  more. 

But  where  did  I  leave  off?  Oh,  yes!  The 
boy,  doubtless  enough,  is  father  to  the  man.  The 
boy  we  have  in  our  eye,  so  to  say,  what  was  he 
up  to?  Had  I  the  remarkable  gift  of  Mr.  Tark- 
ington  for  depicting  man  in  his  natural  state, 
that  is,  before  the  inhibitions  of  mature  society 
have  (somewhat)  cloaked  him  (for  better  or  for 
worse?),  had  I  that  gift — Alackaday!  I  wot  not 
but  this  my  tale  would  stall  right  here;  and  we'd 
never  get  (in  this  volume)  to  the  strange,  bril 
liant,  and  beautiful  happenings  which  I  feel  now 
fto  be  awaiting  me  in  San  Francisco. 

For,  though  Penrod's  orbit  swung  round  much 
the  same  group  of  "alleys,"  "back  yards,"  "sta 
bles,"  "grade  schools,"  and  so  on,  as  that  of  the 
small  heathen  of  my  picture  on  that  swaying 
train,  Penrod — Penrod! — what  did  he  know  of 

[103] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

the  underworld,  of  dark  ways  and  of  dreadful 
deeds ! 

I  should  be  getting  this  narrative  on  to,  at 
least,  as  far  as  Chicago,  as  I  have  a  premonition 
that  in  Chicago  I  shall  experience  divers  things 
which  will  surprise  you  beyond  measure.  (But, 
you  see,  you  challenged  me  in  this  fray  with  that 
little  Lord  Fauntleroy,  Penrod,  and  I  "gotta" 
stop  right  here  until  the  matter  is  settled  one 
way  or  another.) 

In  my  picture  was  that  (locally)  far-famed  or 
ganization  known  as  the  B.  B.  B.,  the  terror 
everywhere  (in  the  neighborhood)  of  all  righ 
teous-doers.  To  the  initiated,  to  those  of  the 
faith,  those,  so  to  say,  stamped  with  the  holy 
seal,  those  dread  and  cryptic  symbols  rang  out 
like  shots  the  name — Bad  Boys'  Brigade.  (I, 
like  Benvenuto  Cellini,  have  no  squeamishness 
about  what  it  is  becoming  in  a  strong  man  to 
speak  of  himself.  The  Founder,  and  the  Presi 
dent,  of  this  terrible  association,  was  none  other 
than  Murray  Hill.) 

What  were  its  rites,  its  tenets,  and  its  crimes? 

To  revel  in  those  things  which  were  forbidden 

by  those  in  power.    To  spit  upon  the  meek.    To 

scoff  at  beauty  and  justice.     And  continually 

[104] 


BOYHOOD  OF  THE  HERO 

to  plunder  and  lay  waste  property  of  those  who 
had  accumulated  in  abundance.  (A  thought  oc 
curs  to  me.  Yes,  a  thought!  As  I  reflect  back 
upon  the  ideas  of  this  enterprising  organization 
I  perceive  that,  though  its  aspirations  were  not, 
consciously,  political,  it  was  in  thought  and  feel 
ing  years  in  advance  of  its  day.  One  and  identi 
cal  was  it  in  ambition  with  the  forces  which  from 
one  quarter  so  lately  sought,  and  in  so  many 
places  is  even  now  seeking,  to  revolutionize  the 
world.) 

Murray  Hill  maintained  his  prestige  in  the 
circle  he  had  gathered  about  him  by  his  prowess. 
He  alone  among  his  comrades  could  gulp  down  a 
glass  of  water  without  removing  a  "chew"  of  to 
bacco  from  his  mouth.  He  beyond  all  other  was 
erudite  in  Billy's  stock  of  fiction.  He  it  was 
who  stood,  in  the  night,  on  the  city's  outskirts, 
an  unloaded  twenty-two  caliber  revolver  in 
trembling  hand,  covering  against  assault  by  po 
lice  the  getaway  of  his  comrades  with  bundles 
of  lathes  stolen  from  the  lumber  yard.  Lathes 
stolen  to  fence  the  cracks  in  the  "woodshed"  from 
the  giving  out  of  light  from  within — where  in 
the  dark  hours  was  a  gambling  den. 

The  most  memorable  event  in  the  history  of 

[105] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

the  B.  B.  B.  (somewhat  painfully  memorable  for 
one  of  its  members)  was  the  casting  of  a  maiden- 
lady  aunt  into  a  deep  pit — she  having  entered 
the  rendezvous  of  the  gang  in  search  of  some 
such  article  as  a  grass  rake,  and  quite  innocent 
of  the  fact  that  a  trap -door  had  been  cut  in  the 
flooring  with  the  express  design  of  capturing, 
and  holding  for  ransom,  the  poor  little  rich  boy 
of  the  neighborhood,  Freddie  Minhurst. 

At  length  the  B.  B.  B.  perished,  and  (as  far 
as  I  know)  had  no  successor.  The  Dirty  Dozen, 
of  a  later  date,  an  association  of  somewhat  older 
spirits  whose  ambitions  were  spineless:  playing 
pool  (which  was  against  the  law  for  those  under 
eighteen) ;  hanging  round  the  corner  drugstore 
in  the  evening;  wearing  very  pointed  shoes 
(which  were  ultra  then) ;  and  endeavoring  to  cul 
tivate  the  mustache. 

******* 

That  accursed  train  stopped.  Continued  to 
stay  stopped.  Engine  sounded  its  whistle.  Again. 
Still  stopped!  Now  what  the  deuce  is  the  mat 
ter!  I  had  been  coming  closer  and  closer  to 
sleep !  If  there  is  one  thing  beyond  all  else  that 
riles  me  (outside,  of  course,  of  encountering 
some  pig-headed  idea)  it  is  this:  get  my  nerves 
[106] 


BOYHOOD  OF  THE  HERO 

somewhat  in  accord  with  the  horror  of  occupying 
a  vile  coop  in  a  rushing  night  train — bang! 
nerves  ripped  to  smithers — all  motion  ceases! 

Creak,  creak!  Begin  to  go!  Cheer  up  a  bit. 
Stalled  again! 

Oh,  Lord!  What's  the  use!  Think  of  some 
thing  else! — in  St.  Louis  I'll  find  her  that  I 
missed. 

******* 

In  that  singular  way  in  which  the  mind  v/orks, 
the  thought  of  one  woman  led  to  thought  of  an 
other,  who  had  no  relation  whatever  to  the  first. 
I  don't  know  whether  or  not  you  have  had  the 
experience,  which  was  mine  in  Indianapolis.  Cu 
rious  kind  of  thing,  seems  to  me.  You  know, 
her  name  was  Marie.  Or  perhaps  you  don't 
know.  Anyhow,  met  her  on  the  street,  quite  by 
chance.  Hadn't  seen  her  for  years  and  years. 
Kissed  her  on  the  spot.  Should  I  not?  I  dunno ! 
Seemed  to  me  a  very  natural  sort  of  thing  to  do. 
"Why,  yes;  of  course!  To-morrow?  Fine!" 
And  so  I  was  to  dine  with  her!  By  the  way, 
what  was  that  gentleman's  name?  Begins  with 
M  or  S,  or  B,  or  something  like  that.  Give  it 
up  1  Well,  he  was  to  call  for  me,  and  take  me  out 

[107] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

to  their  house.      (The  name  would  come  out 
somehow.) 

What  is  that  phrase  of  George  Moore's?  "The 
Romance  of  Destiny."  For  she  was  a  child,  and 
I  was  a  child,  I  and  my  Annabel  Lee — I  mean, 
Marie.  I  don't  know  how  the  poem  goes.  Look 
it  up.  I  haven't  time  to-day.  Something  about 
a  great  deal  of  purity  in  the  loving  of  these  chil 
dren  in  a  kingdom  by  the  sea.  Quite  so! 

Well,  here  was  she,  and  here  was  I,  and  here 
was  her  husband,  all  sitting  down  to  meat  to 
gether.  And  that's  all  there  is  to  the  story.  Un 
less  her  husband  should  die,  or  run  away  with 
a  movie  actress,  and  I  should  meet  her  crossing 
Hyde  Park,  and  we  should  give  a  vicar  a  sov 
ereign,  and  she  should  divorce  me  at  Monte 
Carlo.  Who  can  say?  Not  I! 

******* 

In  the  meantime,  I  seemed  to  be  again  getting 
on  toward  St.  Louis. 

I  knew  all  the  while  that  he  was  there ;  but  I 
never  understood  just  how  you  go  to  see  a  man 
who  lives  in  a  postoffice.  You  know  those  great 
long  buildings,  with  the  endless  corridors  full  of 
echoes,  little  windows  all  about,  and  everything. 

But  one  day  I  was  buying  thirty  cents'  worth 
[108] 


BOYHOOD  OF  THE  HERO 

of  stamps  in  there;  and  afterward  I  was  going 
along  toward  the  end  where  you  get  out ;  and  on 
a  door  I  saw  the  word  "Postmaster";  and  I  said: 
"I  declare!  if  that  isn't  where  he  lives,  right  in 
there!"  I  didn't  know  then,  of  course,  whether 
you  could  go  in  and  see  a  postmaster,  the  way 
you  might  anybody  else  out  in  the  secular  world; 
but  I  confided  in  a  young  woman  behind  a  railing 
my  idea  of  attempting  such  an  act.  She  said, 
very  pleasantly,  it  was  quite  all  right  for  me  to 
go  in.  And  there,  'pon  my  soul!  he  was:  Robert 
E.  Springsteen — the  gentleman  who,  once  upon 
a  time,  sold  me  my  first  pair  of  pants. 

It  was  like  a  cinema:  my  grandmother  (poor 
old  lady!  she  is  dead  long  ago)  took  me  in  the 
family  "carriage"  (that  vehicle  which  was  the 
symbol  of  some  position  in  those  days)  to  the 
When — that  was  the  singular  and  humorous 
name  of  this  clothing  store.  (There  the  now  a 
bit  elderly,  prosperous,  and  prominent  Mr. 
Springsteen  was  the  young  clerk.)  I  6an  see 
myself,  plain  as  print,  poised  on  the  step  of  the 
carriage,  about  to  alight.  My  costume — that  of 
a  male  person  of  my  age  and  caste — "kilts." 

This  first  suit  with  short  trousers,  it  was  un 
derstood  by  common  pact  between  me  as  party 

[109] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

to  the  first  part  and,  on  the  other  hand,  all  the 
members  of  my  family,  was  to  be  for  Sunday  use 
exclusively.  As  a  handsome  concession  to  the 
august  occasion,  an  exception  was  made  in  the 
matter  of  the  first  day  of  my  possession  of  the 
distinguished  property. 

As,  that  afternoon,  I  stood  on  the  pavement 
before  the  gracious  brick  residence  where  I  had 
been  born,  and  flaunted  the  sartorial  insignia  of 
my  manhood,  it  struck  me  that  the  world  was 
singularly  unalive  to  a  matter  of  great  moment. 
At  length  I  could  stand  this  situation  no  longer. 
And,  with  my  hands  deep  in  my  trouser  pockets, 
I  said  to  the  next  passerby:  "I  have  on  pants!" 
******* 

The  strike  of  the  switchmen,  or  yardmen,  or 
whatever  you  call  them,  was  on;  and  we  came 
into  St.  Louis  by  leaps  of  an  inch  every  half  an 
hour. 

Oh,  yes;  those  shoes!  You  will  recollect  (as 
you  have  a  retentive  memory)  that  in  my  ac 
count  of  my  departure  from  Indianapolis  I  said 
we  (I  and  the  bell-boy  who  assisted  me  to 
"pack")  threw  into  my  bag  "everything  handy." 
So  (in  St.  Louis  when  I  sought  my  slippers)  I 
discovered  we  literally  had  done,  more  or  less 
[110] 


BOYHOOD  OF  THE  HERO 

regardless  of  my  property  as  distinct  from  that 
of  the  hotel. 

I  had  transported  plenty  of  ashtrays,  but  no 
slippers.  And  likewise  to  my  "other"  shoes — 
farewell ! 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MILTONIC  ANGELS,,  NOT  HERRICK  BLOSSOMS 

I  DON'T  know  whether  or  not  you  have  ever 
been  to  St.  Louis.  And  so,  I'll  tell  you 
something  about  the  place.  A  few  turns  about 
the  streets  and  you  are  struck  by  something — 
something  odd,  unusual,  impressive.  But  you 
don't  know  what  it  is  you  are  struck  by.  Not  at 
once. 

Then,  perhaps  suddenly,  the  scales  drop  from 
your  eyes;  and  you  see!  What?  Why,  that  the 
women  of  St.  Louis — all  the  women  of  St.  Louis ! 
— are  very  remarkable  indeed.  A  fine  lady  de 
scending  from  her  car,  an  elevator  lass — 'tis  the 
same.  Handsome  all!  Noble  of  stature  and 
mien.  Mettlesome !  One  thinks  of  what  the  old 
tales  call  a  "charger."  And  one  thinks,  too,  of 
that  majestic  animal  whose  nostrils  scented  the 
battle  from  afar  and  who  said  "Ha!  Ha!"  Not 
the-  petite  type  this — though  I  have  nothing 
against  that  either.  But  here  is  sculpture,  paint 
ing,  poetry  in  a  different  mood.  Elgin  marble, 
[112] 


MILTONIC  ANGELS 

not  Chelsea  china;  Rubens,  not  Watteau; 
Miltonic  angels,  not  Herrick  blossoms.  There 
came  into  my  mind,  as  I  lit  a  cigarette  at  that 
busy  corner  of  Olive  and  Ninth  Streets,  an  echo 
of  that  line  of  Meredith's,  and  I  tried  to  recon 
struct  the  best  of  it.  How  does  it  go?  "Great- 
bosomed  mothers  of  the  race,"  or  something  like 
that.  Ah!  (to  speak  in  the  rhythm  of  old  Omar) 
look  it  up  in  the  books.  Books  to  me  are  only 
memories.  I  read  them  when  (at  twenty)  I  was 
old;  now  that,  at  thirty-five  (or  so) ,  I  am  young, 
my  concern  is  only  with  the  moving  spectacle 
itself.  Come;  let  us  go  along  Olive  Street,  and 
there  read  the  story  and  see  the  show! 

And  if  (and  such,  indeed,  is  the  general  effect 
of  the  scene)  all  the  women  of  St.  Louis  are  of 
heroic  mold  and  beautiful  countenance,  so,  too, 
is  it  true  that  they  subtly  know  the  art  of  dis 
tinction  in  dress.  They  dress  so  well,  indeed, 
that  they  do  not,  in,  the  least,  overdress.  They 
know,  what  Whistler  taught,  that  a  portrait 
should  stand  within  its  frame.  In  this,  I  think, 
they  have  more  or  less  the  drop  on  Fifth  Avenue. 
******* 

When  I  arrived  in  the  city  they  were  putting 
on  a  "Forward  St.  Louis"  movement.     Some 

[113] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

gentlemen  of  my  acquaintance  invited  me  to  a 
luncheon  at  a  meeting  of  the  Advertising  Club, 
where  I  heard,  presented  with  much  eloquence, 
the  merits  of  "Municipal  Advertising,"  "The 
Symphony  Orchestra,"  "The  Municipal  The 
ater,"  and  "The  Coming  Municipal  Bond  Is 
sue."  Then,  intending  that  as  an  act  of  cour 
tesy,  those  in  charge  of  the  affair  called  upon  me 
to  "speak." 

I  must  tell  you,  in  this  my  autobiography,  how 
it  was  with  me  in  the  matter  of  that  speaking 
business.  Because  I  foresee,  as  we  go  on,  some 
sport  to  come  of  the  thing. 

Now,  the  various  writers  who  have  told  with 
much  incisive  humor  of  the  agonies  of  small  boys 
compelled  to  speak  a  "piece"  at  school  have 
hardly  touched  the  surface  of  the  tortures  that, 
in  such  circumstances,  were  mine.  Come  to  think 
of  it,  my  life  from  now  until  the  end  is  compara 
tively  immune  from  mental  anguish.  For  ( I  see 
myself  again  at  "Number  Ten"  schoolhouse,  on 
Friday  afternoon)  nothing  else  conceivable  in 
this  world  could  possibly  "get  my  goat"  any 
where  near  "as  worse"  as  that  did. 

Got  little,  or  no,  better  in  this  matter  as  I  grew 
older.  In  the  course  of  time  (and  after  several 
[114] 


MILTON1C  ANGELS 

years  spent  in  New  York  as  an  idle  apprentice 
to  the  profession  of  painting),  as  a  result  of  a 
humorous  series  of  circumstances  I  turned  up  as 
a  Student  at  the  University  of  Kansas — was 
"rushed"  (I  believe  that's  the  word)  by  two 
fraternities.  Became  a  Sigma  Alpha  Epsilon 
"brother."  Talkative  enough  cheek  by  jowl, 
mute  was  I  in  formal  council. 

There  was  a  "man"  of  that  "chapter"  named 
(I  think)  Cockmore — a  regular,  rip-roaring  ge 
nius  at  speechifying.  As  Mr.  Whistler  remarks, 
"I  haven't  heard  of  him  since."  But  no  matter, 
the  point  is  (awaiting  in  terror  the  time  when 
I  might  have  to  arise  and  say  something) ,  I  used 
to  sit  in  marvelment  at  the  strange  gift  of  this 
fellow  creature — as  marvelous  to  me,  as  inexplic 
able,  as  any  shake-a-rabbit-out-of-a-top-hat  kind 
of  stuff  I  ever  saw.  He  would  go  on  and  on  and 
on.  The  fact  that  he  was  on  his  feet,  and  being 
listened  to  by  a  throng,  gave  him  something  to 
say.  Gave  him  power,  dramatic  force,  and  elo 
quence,  literary  style — which  at  other  times  he 
did  not  possess. 

Whereas  with  me,  an  organism  in  all  its  phys 
ical  parts  like  himself,  such  a  situation  worked 
in  exactly  the  opposite  way.  Whenever  there 

[115] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

was  anything  to  be  said  by  me,  my  instinct  has 
ever  been  to  get  off  in  a  corner  somewhere  and 
write  it  out;  if  I  could  do  that,  I  felt  the  thing 
I  had  to  say  would  come  out  all  right.  And,  by 
the  way,  Cockmore,  on  the  other  hand,  couldn't 
write  worth  beans. 

But  whenever  I  had  to  stand  up  before  a  lot 
of  people  my  brain  seemed  to  fall  down  some 
how  somewhere  behind  my  ears.  Any  nimble- 
ness  of  mind  which  I  might  other  times  possess 
departed  completely.  Nothing  whatever  resem 
bling  a  thought  or  an  idea  remained  with  me. 
Painfully  and  laboriously  I  would  lift  one  heavy 
sentence  after  another,  becoming  more  and  more 
bewildered  all  the  while  by  my  acute  conscious 
ness  of  my  singular  impotence  in  the  matter  of 
expression.  Though  later,  of  course,  I  had  an 
abundance  of  what  the  politicians  call  "cabwit" 
— that  is,  the  brilliant  things  which  occur  to  you 
on  the  way  home. 

.  There  doesn't  seem  to  be  any  word  for  the 
case,  such  as  tone  deaf,  and  color  blind,  but  same 
sort  of  thing,  this,  I  concluded — something  left 
out  of  the  machine :  I  was  organically  disqualified 
from  speaking. 

At  Indianapolis,  it  was,  the  miracle  happened. 
[116] 


MILTONIC  ANGELS 

Got  roped  into  attending  a  meeting  of  the  Writ 
ers'  Club,  held  in  a  side  room  of  the  very  hand 
some  new  Public  Library  building  there.  Knew 
I'd  be  called  on  to  "say  something."  Neverthe 
less,  went  gladly.  What  do  you  think  of  that! 
Believe  you  me,  I  didn't  know  what  to  think  of 
it  myself. 

Gentleman,  professor  of  that  subject  at  In 
diana  University,  gave  address  on  "Journalism." 
Spoke  well — and  at  considerable  length.  Here 
comes  the  funny  stuff.  How — at  all  those  oc 
casions  throughout  my  life  when  I  would  be,  as 
the  barbers  say,  "next" — had  I  yearned  (with 
deep  and  frantic  yearning)  for  him  that  "pre 
ceded"  me  to  continue  talking  on  and  on  for 
ever! 

Account  for  the  phenomenon  however  you  can : 
I  became  decidedly  annoyed  by  this  gentleman — 
was  he  going  to  talk  all  night,  give  me  no  chance 
at  all? 

It  was  a  weird  sensation — to  see  (for  the  first 
time  in  my  life)  a  large  bunch  of  eager  faces 
fixed  upon  me  and  all  alight  with  approving 
smiles.  I  talked,  I  realized  then  as  well  as  after 
ward,  too  rapidly;  and  I  came  too  abruptly  to 
an  end.  But  as  I  glanced  at  the  very  slight  mem- 

[117] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

orandum  I  had  made  during  the  professor's  dis 
course,  the  stuff  just  tumbled  out,  and  then  sud 
denly  that  seemed  to  be  all  I  had  in  stock. 

A  mysterious,  a  miraculous  good  luck  attend 
ed  me.  I  told,  among  other  things,  the  story  of 
the  gentleman  in  Philadelphia.  He  went  into 
John  Wanamaker's  bookstore  there,  this  gentle 
man,  and  bought  a  copy  of  a  recently  published 
volume  of  mine  to  read,  as  he  stated,  on  his  com 
mutation  train  going  home.  He  took  the  next 
train  back  to  Philadelphia,  where  at  John  Wana- 
maker's  he  demanded  his  money  back.  Mr. 
Wanamaker,  or  some  one  speaking  for  him,  re 
fused  to  comply  with  this  demand,  on  the  ground 
that  the  gentleman  had  had  time  to  read  the 
book.  And  this  the  gentleman  declared  he  cer 
tainly  had  done.  Proclaimed  it,  he  did,  the  rot- 
tenest  book  he  ever  had  read. 

Failing  of  any  satisfaction  at  the  bookshop,  he 
sat  him  down  and  wrote  to  my  publishers.  In 
this  lengthy,  able,  and  very  spirited  communica 
tion  he  asserted  that  the  mind  that  had  conceived 
that  book  was  not  equal  even  to  the  mind  of  a 
child,  and  he  advanced  the  judgment  that  any 
publishing  house  which  would  put  forth  such'  a 
thing,  and  sting  a  man  a  sum  of  money  for  it, 
[118] 


MILTONIC  ANGELS 

was  no  better  than,  in  his  phrase,  a  "gang  of 
crooks" 

Well,  I  was  advised  by  one  having  my  interest 
in  mind  that  I  should  not  tell  this  story,  as  it 
might  give  my  books  a  black  eye.  But  next 
morning — I  had  been  hilariously  asked,  at  the 
conclusion  of  my  talk,  the  name  of  the  Philadel- 
phian's  purchase — I  found  in  W.  K.  Stewart's 
bookstore  three  persons  who  had  heard  me,  ask 
ing  for  copies  of  that  volume.  It  may  have  been, 
of  course,  that  they  were  merely  curious  to  see 
how  bad  a  book  really  could  be.  But  they  cast 
my  way,  as  I  went  by,  a  look  as  though  they 
were  genuinely  pleased  to  see  me.  And  so  it 
was,  thus  encouraged  by  my  phenomenal  stroke 
of  public  articulation,  that  after  all  these  years 
of  quite  contrary  sentiment  in  the  matter,  was 
born  in  me  the  ambition  to  become  a  brilliant 
"platform"  speaker.  And  I  resolved  to  culti 
vate  this  art  on  my  travels.  Indeed,  right  keen 
was  I  to  speak  again  somewhere  else  without 
delay. 

******* 

But,  let  me  see,  I  am  now  in  St.  Louis,  am  I 
not?  A  new  bookstore  is  being  opened  here. 
That  is  largely  what  I  came  about.  To  take  a 

[119] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

part,  at  the  kind  invitation  of  the  management, 
in  what  the  announcements  term  "authors'  week." 
That  and  to  seek  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  the 
gentleman  advertised  to  act  as  "master  of  cere 
monies,"  William  Marion  Reedy. 

He  arose,  Mr.  Reedy,  to  "introduce"  the  first 
speaker.  A  Chestertonian  figure  of  a  man.  A 
pear-shaped  countenance  (enormous  at  the  base) 
mounted  on  a  pear-shaped  torso.  Face  aglow 
like  a  ruddy  lantern.  Solemn  in  effect,  very 
solemn.  Put  the  tips  of  his  fingers  together  ber 
•fore  him,  like  a  Dickensian  minister  about  to 
pronounce  a  benediction.  Suggested,  a  great 
deal,  a  very  large  owl. 

Or  rather,  perhaps  (after  he  had  begun  to 
speak),  an  immense,  very  owlish,  fat  boy  speak 
ing  a  "piece"  at  school.  He  uttered,  standing 
perfectly  still,  looking  all  the  while  straight  into 
the  air  before  him,  with  a  completely  expression 
less  countenance — and  (as  it  seemed)  painfully, 
in  a  dull  monotone — a  series  of  exceedingly  hu 
morous  remarks.  Then  solemnly  sat  down.  And 
continued  to  present  an  utterly  empty  face  to 
the  air. 

I  do  not  know  when  I  had  seen  a  character 
which  so  greatly  took  my  fancy.  Perhaps  it  was 
[120] 


MILTONIC  ANGELS 

when,  at  the  gate  to  Overloads,  I  last  saw  the 
illustrious  G.  K.  C.  himself. 

I  was  told  that  in  order  to  find  Mr.  Reedy 

"in"  it  would  be  necessary  for  me  to  call  at  his 

office  in  the  forenoon,  as  at  this  season  of  the  year 

it  was  his  habit  to  go  to  the  ball  game  after  lunch. 

******* 

My  soul  was  cheered  first  pop  out  of  the  box 
in  St.  Louis  by  the  sight  of  a  splendid  Airedale 
riding  by  in  a  luxurious  car.  I  had  not  seen  such 
a  happy  spectacle  since  I  left  New  York.  Much 
had  I  complained  in  Indianapolis  of  the  absence 
from  the  picture  of  blooded  dogs.  "No,"  admit 
ted  Mr.  Nicholson,  "this  is  not  a  dog-town." 
Reluctantly,  not  because  he  himself  cares  a  bit 
for  dogs,  or  knows  the  least  thing  about  them, 
but  because  it  pains  him  to  feel  his  city  lacking 
in  any  fine  quality,  and  he  knew  that  I  knew 
that  a  people  which  has  no  cultivated  sense  for 
bred  dogs  is  a  people  by  that  much  falling  short 
of  a  full  equipment  of  the  graces  of  the  heart 
and  mind.  I  read  him  a  lecture  on  this  theme. 
Sternly,  too. 

Now  as  to  the  effect  in  values  of  women  in  the 
social  picture,  he  is,  I  am  happy  to  be  able  to 
testify,  not  insensitive.  He  suggested  to  me  a 

[121] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

highly  intelligent  idea  in  this  connection.  This — 
that  we  (he  and  I)  propose  to  the  editorial 
mind  somewhere  the  following  brilliant  journal 
istic  enterprise:  the  pair  of  us  to  be  sent  (at  a 
fancy  figure)  from  coast  to  coast,  from  the  Do 
minion  to  the  Mexican  border,  as  connoisseurs  in 
this  matter,  as  a  commission  of  inquiry  to  collect 
data,  and  as  a  court  of  judgment  to  render  a 
verdict.  What  matter?  Why,  as  to  where  the 
prettiest  women  in  America  are  to  be  found,  in 
what  part  of  the  nation  they  abound  in  greatest 
numbers,  how  the  types  of  one  locality  differ 
from  those  of  another,  and  (if  possible)  to  as 
certain  the  reasons  for  this.  And  so  on. 

As,  however,  I  was  already  launched  upon  my 
travels,  and  as  the  business  of  framing  up  the 
thing  with  an  editor  for  the  two  of  us  might  have 
occasioned  some  delay,  I  determined  to  go  it 
alone,  and  (all  unaided)  to  conduct  this  perilous 
investigation  and  give  you  some  answers  to  the 
stirring  questions  I  have  just  stated. 

Rather  a  large  order,  that,  I  found  right  away. 
For  at  once  I  ran  up  against  a  snag.  Why  (I 
give  it  up!)  do  all  women  in  St.  Louis  have  such 
jolly  fine  complexions?  And  how  do  you  ac 
count  for  this  fact:  that  every  miss  and  matron 
[122] 


MILTONIC  ANGELS 

there  goes  crowned  with  a  glorious  abundance  of 

hair? 

******* 

Among  the  guests  at  my  table  (you  see,  come 
to  think  of  it,  I  haven't  yet  finished  that  luncheon 
at  the  Advertising  Club)  was  a  gentleman  in 
troduced  to  several  of  the  company  as  Rabbi 
Louis  Witt,  of  Temple  Shaare  Emeth.  An  ami 
able  man  with  an  easy  fund  of  excellent  talk.  He 
gave  me  (probably  because  I  had  been  presented 
as  a  literary  man)  a  lengthy  account  of  a  story 
he  had  written,  "entirely  without  prejudice," 
though  having  its  spring  in  a  religious  subject. 

I  do  not  agree  with  the  good  Rabbi  in  the 
position  which  he  apparently  assumed  that  to 
have  written  this  story  "without  prejudice"  was 
a  virtue,  either  in  religion  or  in  art.  What's  the 
good  of  being  a  Jew  at  all  if  you  are  a  Jew  only 
slightly?  And  whereas  there  were  divers  re 
ligions,  each  of  which  was  the  only  true  one,  be 
fore  our  modern  fad  for  "toleration"  began  to 
sap  the  vitals  of  faith,  now  it  is  difficult  to  find 
the  Truth  firmly  believed  anywhere.  Is  there 
not,  too,  prejudice  aplenty  against  Jews? 
And  if  a  man  smite  you  on  the  left  cheek,  turn 
*o  him  and  smite  him  on  the  right  cheek  also. 

[123] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

That,  at  any  rate,  is  good  Old  Testament  the 
ology.    Or  so  I  see  the  matter. 

As  to  art.  As  George  Moore  has  eloquently 
elucidated  the  theme,  only  that  art  is  best  which 
is  most  racy  of  the  soil  from  which  it  sprang.  The 
art  of  a  woman  has  merit  in  proportion  as  its 
qualities  are  feminine — George  Eliot  and  Jane 
Austen.  French  art  (to  endure,  and  attain  inter 
national  fame)  must  be  French;  British  art,  Brit 
ish  ;  American  art,  American ;  eighteenth  century 
art,  eighteenth  century.  A  Catholic  should  speak 
(in  art)  the  Catholic  tongue;  and  if  a  Jew  would 
make  a  beautiful  thing,  Jewish  must  it  be  in  fiber. 
Not  otherwise  can  there  be  vitality  in  art. 
******* 

I  said  (I  was  speaking  at  this  St.  Louis  lunch 
eon)  : 

"  Gentlemen: 

"I  used  to  be  considerable  of  a  talker.  I  talked 
brilliantly,  and  copiously,  all  up  and  down 
Broadway  from  Van  Cortlandt  Park  to  Bowling 
Green — in  at  every  corner.  Then,  along  about 
the  first  of  July,  1919,  I  noticed  that  the  springs 
of  my  talk  began  to  dry  up.  Still  I  struggled  on, 
doing  the  best  I  could,  attempting  to  keep  alive 
some  sort  of  human  contact  of  mind  with  my 
[124] 


MILTONIC  ANGELS 

fellow  man.  But  about  the  middle  of  January, 
1920  (the  sixteenth  of  the  month,  I  think  was 
the  date)  I  gave  up.  No  longer  any  use!  The 
spirit  of  fellowship  had  departed.  And  now  I 
never  say  anything  at  all;  and  when  I  do,  it 
isn't  worth  listening  to." 

Speeches  have  fallen  more  flat  than  rftine. 
'Nother  step  taken  in  my  new  art.  I  was  a 
"coming"  speaker.  No  doubt  of  it! 

******* 

She  gave  a  backward  start,  Eleanor  did,  when 
she  perceived  my  approach.  "Oh,  yes!"  I  said 
as  I  went  to  greet  her,  "the  miss  is  cold  because 
she  thinks  I  deliberately  dumped  her."  She 
looked  as  though  she  were  about  to  retreat  as  I 
addressed  her.  Her  manner  puzzled  me,  too. 
She  looked  rather — well,  as  you  might  say, 
frightened.  Why  should  annoyance  at  me,  anger, 
cause  her  to  be  obviously  so  "rattled"? 

When  I  had  explained  how  it  was  I  missed 
that  train  she  did  not  relent.     Somewhat  more 
composed  in  manner,  she  became  decidedly  se 
vere.    I  withdrew  munching  humble  pie. 
******* 

But  happily,  my  spirit  is  resilient.  I  observed 
a  young  woman  going  along  the  street  holding 

[125] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

in  her  hand  a  book.  Now  whenever  I  discover 
any  one  with  a  book  in  public  places,  such  as 
streets  and  parks  and  trains  and  trolley-cars,  I 
am  always  curious  to  discover  the  title  of  it.  I 
sometimes  put  myself  out  a  good  deal  in  order 
to  accomplish  this.  Eager  am  I  to  take  some 
one,  stranger  to  me,  in  the  act  of  reading  one  of 
my  own  books — covertly  to  watch  his  face  or 
hers.  A  feeling,  I  fancy,  common  to  many  au 
thors. 

And  so  I  speeded  up  my  limbs  of  locomotion, 
glancing  sideways  at  this  young  person  as  I 
passed  on  ahead  of  her.  The  title  of  the  book 
she  carried  was  "Only  One  Love."  That  would 
hardly  be,  I  felt,  the  title  of  any  book  of  mine. 


[126] 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  AUTHOR  GOES  WOOL  GATHERING 

THERE  is  in  St.  Louis  a  lady  of  the  name 
of  Mrs.  J.  R.  Clemens.    Dr.  Clemens,  her 
husband,  is  a  cousin  of  the  late  Mark  Twain. 

"Will  you  not  waive  ceremony,"  her  note  said, 
"and  let  us  take  you  to  luncheon  on  Thursday? 
At  one  P.  M.  we  should  call  for  you  at  your 
hotel  (or  wherever  you  might  say)  and  motor  to 
the  Sunset  Hill  Club  (which  club  I  think  you 
will  find  charming)  and,  of  course,  bring  you 

back  to  town.    We  should  ask  two  or  three  oth- 

•  j 

ers  to  meet  you." 

The  doctor  drove  me  out  Pershing,  formerly 
Berlin,  Avenue,  and  we  picked  up  the  other  men 
of  the  party  as  we  went :  an  attractive  young  man 
in  training,  as  you  might  say,  for  the  priesthood; 
and  a  Father  Wilbur — a  gentleman,  I  discov 
ered,  of  interesting  history,  one-time  an  Epis 
copalian  minister;  of  vivid  personality;  of  con 
siderable  local  reputation;  and — as  the  author 

[127] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

of  a  sonnet  sequence  addressed,  as  I  understand 
the  matter,  to  Roosevelt,  and  published  some 
thing  like  a  couple  of  years  ago — of  much  wider 
fame.  My  impression,  got  from  that  "grape 
vine  telegraph"  which  is  all  about  in  the  air,  is  that 
these  sonnets  are  decidedly  striking  in  character. 

I  had  gone  into  the  St.  Louis  Public  Library 
(this  was  a  bit  before  this  afternoon)  and,  after 
wandering  about  through  intricate  subterranean 
corridors  there,  was  endeavoring  to  find  my  way 
out.  I  looked,  I  doubt  not,  much  bewildered.  She 
said,  the  slender  vision  that  suddenly  appeared 
in  the  semi-darkness:  "I'll  show  you  the  way." 
And,  figuratively  speaking,  led  me  by  the  hand 
roundabout  to  a  sort  of  trick  door. 

We  passed  out  onto  a  stone  terrace,  and  (I 
am  always  glad  to  get  out  of  a  building,  any  kind 
of  a  building)  I  was  conscious  of  that  lift  I  al 
ways  get  from  fresh  contact  with  sunshine  and 
roving  air.  .  .  .  It  is  a  terrible  thought :  being  at 
length  shoveled  underground  for  keeps ! 

She  thanked  me  very  prettily  for  a  note  I  had 
put  into  THE  BOOKMAN  at  the  time  of  the  death 
of  the  late  Cyrus  Townsend  Brady.  (I  wished, 
on  this  terrace,  I  had  made  that  obituary  notice 
longer.)  A  niece  she,  I  learned,  of  the  writer. 
[128] 


THE  AUTHOR  WOOL  GATHERING 

(I  think  I'll  look  up  some  of  those  Brady  books 
and  read  them.) 

Of  course  I  had  "met"  Mr.  Lord.  No!  My! 
Why  I  certainly  should !  And  why  ?  Goodness  1 
Mr.  Lord  was  a  friend  of  my  friend  Joyce  Kil 
mer.  Lectured  about  him,  beautifully!  Now. 
But,  of  course,  I'd  come  across  him.  Good-by. 
So  glad  .  .  .  And  so  forth. 

Fragrant  blossom!  And,  very  probably,  I 
should  like  well  enough  her  Mr.  Lord.  I  didn't, 
however,  see  much  likelihood  of  my  walking  into 
him  somewhere  in  the  midst  of  St.  Louis  during 
my  stay  of  a  couple  of  days  or  so.  So  the  matter 
went  quickly  from  my  mind. 

Well,  what  do  you  know  about  that!  This 
same  Mr.  Lord,  it  was,  the  young  man  in  training 
for  the  priesthood,  seated  by  me  in  Dr.  Clemens's 
car. 

******* 

I  believe  this  which  I  am  writing  is  what  the 
book  trade  would  call  a  "travel  book."  Isn't  it 
an  account  of  a  tour?  Though,  I  confess,  the 
author  of  it  does  not  seem  to  get  forrader  very 
fast.  Perhaps  that  is  because  (in  confidence  I 
tell  you  this)  he  is  writing  an  imitation  (a  poor 
one,  I  admit)  of  the  j oiliest  travel  book  in  all  the 

[129] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

world— Hilaire  Belloc's  "The  Path  to  Rome." 
I  never  can  keep  a  copy  of  that  book.  The  last 
one  I  had  was  imported  for  me  from  London 
by  my  friend  Louis  Hatch  of  the  bookstore  o£ 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  (And,  by  crickety! 
that  reminds  me:  I'll  bet  I  haven't  paid  for  that 
yet.  It  is  very  difficult  to  pay  for  a  book  which 
from  you  has  gone.) 

I  was  living  in  Inwood  when  this  happened. 
Never  heard  of  the  place  ?  Probably  not.  Well, 
Inwood  was  one  time  a  village  on  the  road  be 
tween  New  York  and  Albany.  Some  of  the  old 
est  houses  on  Manhattan  Island  are  still  there. 
One  in  particular,  the  Dyckman  house,  now  pre 
served  for  the  benefit  of  caretakers  paid  by  the 
city  and  as  a  public  museum,  is  well  worth  seeing. 
A  charming  place  at  Broadway  and  206th  Street. 
This  neighborhood,  bounded  by  Dyckman  Street 
on  the  south,  Spuyten  Duyvil  on  the  north,  Ford- 
ham  on  the  east,  and  the  Hudson  River  on  the 
west,  though  now  a  region  of  new  apartment 
houses  with  gaps  of  ragged  rock  or  rolling  turf 
here  and  there  between,  still  retains  in  its  spirit 
something  of  a  village  character.  Its  main  ar 
tery  of  trade,  what  in  England  would  be  called 
its  High  Street,  is  207th  Street.  And  this  thor- 
[130] 


THE  AUTHOR  WOOL  GATHERING 

oughfare  of  shining,  little  shops,  slightly  bending 
in  its  course,  does  somehow  present  (at  any  rate 
to  my  mind)  something  of  the  picturesque  effect 
of  an  English  High  Street. 

A  "pub"  is  there  in  Inwood  (or  was)  which 
bears  the  name,  pleasantly  reminiscent  of  an 
English  tavern,  of  the  Willow  Tree  Inn — an  old 
willow  tree  standing  greenly  before  its  doors. 
And  there  to  this  most  agreeable  "pub"  in  In- 
wood  did  I  more  frequently  go  than  I  see  any 
need  of  telling  you. 

By  one  of  the  habitues  of  the  place  I  was  much 
attracted:  a  gentleman  of  tall  and  aristocratic 
stature  who  wore  rather  lightly  something  like 
seventy  summers,  together  with  a  very  handsome 
set  of  side  whiskers.  "The  Inwood  Grouch"  was 
the  title  he  bore,  and  (the  man  was  a  journalist, 
after  his  fashion)  the  nom  de  plume  he  used  for 
his  column  of  snappy  gossip  in  the  neighborhood 
weekly  newspaper,  the  Inwood  Times  and 
Sun,  or  something  like  that.  Bit  by  bit  (or 
should  I  say  drink  by  drink?)  his  romance  un 
folded  to  me.  He  had  been  born  in  Indiana 
(where  else  would  you  expect  him,  a  figure  of 
story-book  flavor  and  a  man  of  letters,  to  have 
been  born?).  He  remembered  when  the  Gov- 

[131] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

ernor  of  Indiana  had  his  residence  in  "the  circle" 
at  Indianapolis  (now  Monument  Place),  then  a 
circular  plot  at  the  center  of  the  town,  with  a 
high  board  fence  all  about  it;  and  along  the  curb 
around  it  stood  empty  "express  wagons"  with  a 
drowsing  horse  before  each  one.  As  a  small  boy 
he  had  run  away  with  a  circus.  What  more  dash 
ing  thing,  as  a  small  boy,  could  he  have  done? 
And  he  had  never  been  back  since.  I  fancy  he 
still  had  some  lurking  fear  of  a  hearty  parental 
thrashing  in  store  for  him  "at  home."  Now  his 
home  was  the  Willow  Tree  Inn,  where  he  lived 
alone  save  for  a  cat,  a  night  prowler  as  wayward 
as  himself.  A  black  sheep  and  a  black  cat !  And 
that's  all  there  is  to  that  story. 

But  about  "The  Path  to  Rome"?  Yes,  yes! 
That  has  to  do  with  that  other  fellow.  Little 
chap.  Youngish.  Attended  evening  meetings 
at  the  Willow  Tree  religiously.  Very  serious. 
Keen  on  improving  his  mind.  Strong  for 
"books."  'Atta  boy!  "Reading"  maketh  a  full 
man.  Went  in  for  philosophers — Robert  Inger- 
soll,  and  all  that  kind  of  thing.  Well,  I  didn't 
want  to  take  him  away  from  the  improving  sort 
of  literature,  but  I  thought  something  light  now 
and  then  might  not  hurt  him.  So  I  got  him  to 
[132] 


THE  AUTHOR  WOOL  GATHERING 

borrow  from  me  the  ninth  or  tenth  copy  I Ve  had 
in  my  life  of  "The  Path  to  Rome." 

The  book,  apparently,  had  a  most  singular  ef 
fect,  for  which  I  could  not  account  at  all.  He 
suddenly  ceased  to  consort  with  the  world  of 
merry  men.  No  longer  heard  the  call  of  the 
"cocktail  hour."  As  far  as  I  could  make  out,  he 
now  appeared  to  go  straight  home  from  work: 
Probably  ate  his  dinner  there.  And  later  in  the 
evening  might  be  seen  wheeling  a  baby-cart  about 
Isham  Park,  just  across  the  way  from  the  Wil 
low. 

Still  there  is  merit  in  everything,  or  in  nearly 
everything,  in  this  world.  This  mysterious  and 
even  spectacular  conversion  to  domesticity  of  my 
learned  friend  came  in  very  handy — as  a  new 
topic  of  conversation  with  the  Grouch.  Indeed, 
I  cannot  say  that  this  gentleman  had  a  wealth 
of  reminiscences.  The  interest  of  the  "circle" 
and  the  circus  had  begun  to  pall,  so  oft  repeated 
had  I  heard  the  tale. 

And  it's  an  extraordinary  thing,  but  quite  true, 
that  after  he  ran  away  with  the  circus,  life  appar 
ently  yielded  him  nothing  of  interest  to  his  mind 
until  he  met  up  with  that  black  cat.  Enthralling 
enough  was  the  drama  of  that  cat's  night  life — 

[133] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

for  a  time.  But  when  a  gentleman  comes  home 
through  the  window  every  morning,  month  in 
and  month  out,  wrecked  after  a  hard  night,  the 
salt  (so  to  say)  loses  its  savor.  I  got  so  I  didn't 
care  whether  that  cat  ever  came  back  again. 

Then  I  discovered  that  I  had  brought  some 
thing  entirely  new,  deeply  engrossing,  into  the 
Grouch's  life.  He  meditated  deeply  The  Prob 
lem  of  the  Perambulator.  He  would  sit  lost  in 
speculation,  for  half  an  hour  at  a  time  forgetful 
of  the  drink  before  him.  Hard  drink — in  those 
brave  days!  His  face  would  light  with  happy 
greeting,  as  I  entered  at  the  wicker  door,  in  an 
ticipation  of  the  intellectual  exercise  before  us. 

He  felt  his  way,  finally,  to  a  theory.  His  con 
clusion  was  that  the  unfortunate  young  man  had 
been  driven  to  seek  solace  in  family  life,  as  he 
felt  he  dare  not  face  the  owner  of  that  piece  of 
property  because  he  had  lost  the  book  he  had 
borrowed.  This  appealed  to  me,  at  any  rate,  as 
a  ponderable  idea. 

******* 

Then  broke  the  storm  about  Tristram  Shandy. 

Tristram  for  some  considerable  time,  I  am  sorry 

to  have  to  say,  had  not  had  popular  sentiment 

with  him  in  the  vicinity  of  his  home.    You  see, 

[134] 


THE  AUTHOR  WOOL  GATHERING 

for  one  thing,  we  had  an  apartment  on  the  top 
floor — handsome  view,  looked  out  back  onto  a 
mountain.  And  this  mountain  was  to  me  day 
by  day  as  a  beautiful,  majestic  calendar.  By  it 
I  told  the  march  of  the  seasons.  It  was  noble 
under  its  heavy  mantle  of  snow.  Maidenly  ten 
der  with  the  fresh  greenness  of  spring.  Swin- 
burnian  with  fervent  color  in  the  rich  glory  of  its 
summer  noon.  Thoughtful  and  wise  in  the  stal 
wart  maturity  of  its  autumn.  When  I  arose  its1 
august  presence  strengthened  me  for  the  coming 
fret  of  the  day.  At  a  week's  end,  and  in  the  eve 
ning  at  the  close  of  the  clash  of  the  city  day,  it 
spoke  to  my  listening  spirit.  Spoke  to  me  with 
the  untroubled  voice  of  those  things  which  en 
dure,  like  mountains,  and  religions,  and  works 
of  perfect  art.  And  made  me  feel  very  small  and 
much  ashamed  of  my  puny  self,  because  that 
forenoon  in  exasperation  I  had  said  of  a  highly 
intelligent  man  that  he  was  a  damn  fool,  and  in 
the  afternoon,  him  who  had  meant  to  serve  my 
happiness  had  I  told  to  go  to  hell.  I  lived  with 
it,  and  I  loved  it,  my  friend,  that  mountain.  .  .  . 
It  is  well  to  have  one's  New  York  apartment 
backed  up  against  a  mountain. 

And  around  the  edge  of  that  mountain  I  could 

[135] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

'catch,  from  my  window,  a  glint  of  the  ship  canal, 
which  connects  the  Harlem  River  with  the  Hud 
son,  and  along  the  edge  of  which,  at  the  bottom 
of  a  great  meadow,  Tristram  used  to  play. 
Dear  me!  I  had  almost  forgotten  that  dog. 

We  lived,  as  I  was  saying,  at  the  top  of  the 
house.  And  when  I  would  be  taking  Tristram 
down  in  the  morning  for  a  breath  in  the  meadow, 
the  janitress  would  be  scrubbing  the  stairs.  The 
"janitress" — there  I  go  again.  You  know,  I  got 
into  a  mess  of  trouble  about  that  term.  I  sup 
posed  she  was  the  janitress.  That's  what  we 
used  to  call  'em:  persons  who  scrubbed  the  stairs, 
and  "showed"  the  vacant  apartments  (in  the 
days  when  apartments  sometimes  were  vacant), 
and  lived  down  below  somewhere,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing.  But  I  was  very  shortly  corrected, 
when  one  day  I  innocently  so  referred  to  her 
within  her  hearing.  Janitress  indeed !  ( I  admit 
I  had  been  very  careless.  Had  neglected  to  keep 
tabs  on  the  shifting  colors  of  our  social  fabric.) 
Janitress  indeed!  She  was  the  "wife  of  the  su 
perintendent."  I  apologized.  The  apology  was 
not  heartily  accepted. 

I  looked  over  the  superintendent  one  day  a 
bit  later.    He  was  just  arriving  before  his  resi- 
[186] 


THE  AUTHOR  WOOL  GATHERING 

dence  in  his  car — it  being  his  humor  at  the  mo 
ment  to  motor  careless  voters  to  the  polls.  And 
in  my  observation  of  him  I  picked  up  a  number 
of  points  as  to  correctness  in  the  matter  of  a 
gentleman's  dress.  He  had  three  daughters, 
luxuriant  flowers.  I  have  (I  fear)  wooed  divers 
maidens  in  sundry  lands.  One  (I  dimly  recall), 
a  banker's  daughter,  lived  in  Ohio.  But  as  I 
tumbled  to  the  current  caste  divisions  of  my 
native  country,  I  perceived  that  it  would  be  im 
pudence  indeed  to  cast  my  humble  eye  upon  a 
superintendent's  child. 

Then,  being  an  author,  the  situation  ran  in 
my  mind  as  excellent  material  for  fiction,  or  the 
screen.  Synopsis:  ACT  ONE:  Member  of  the 
(formerly)  middle  class — writer,  editor,  club 
man,  forebears  (as  far  back  as  known)  members 
of  the  learned  professions — engaged  in  youth  to 
banker's  daughter ;  a  lovers'  quarrel — estranged ; 
a  bachelor  now  in  early  middle  life:  handsome, 
vigorous,  distinguished  in  his  calling.  One  day 
in  hallway  of  apartment  house  where  he  dwells 
collides  with  young  woman  of  great  beauty  and 
much  fashion  in  attire.  Enslaved! 

ACT  TWO:  SHE  (haughtily  drawing  back) : 

[187] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

"But  you  are  merely  a  tenant.  I  am  the  super 
intendent's  daughter." 

His  mind  torn  with  anguish;  his  mad  hopes 
shattered ;  he  clambers  to  top  of  great  rock  across 
the  street,  with  intention  of  dashing  himself  to 
death,  amid  the  broken  milk  bottles  on  the  side 
walk  below. 

A  scream!  "Stop!  Oh!  Murray  Hill!  In 
deed,  nevertheless,  I  1-1-1-love  you!"  Clam 
bers  down  from  rock.  Embraces.  SHE:  "But 
what  will  father  say?" 

ACT  THREE:  Irate  parent  cuts  off  lovely 
daughter  without  a  penny.  She  repents  of  rash 
passion.  Marries  aged  but  wealthy  street-clean 
er  who  gives  her  all  that  money  can  buy. 

CONCLUSION:  Scene:  Drawing-room  in 
palatial  home  of  supposed  white-wing.  She 
sighs.  He  starts.  In  quavering  voice:  "What 
is  it,  my  dear?"  She  sighs  again.  He  knows: 
she  is  thinking  of  her  (comparatively)  young 
and  handsome  lover — the  poor  editor  and  author 
of  several  successful  books.  It  wrings  his  heart 
to  see  her  so.  Strips  off  his  disguise  and  rises. 
SHE:  "You!"  HE:  "Yes,  little  Cantaloupe" 
(that's  her  name) .  "I  could  not  bear  to  lose  you. 
So  got  a  job  as  a  street-cleaner,  and  in  a  few 
[138] 


THE  AUTHOR  WOOL  GATHERING 

short  weeks  saved  up  enough  to  make  you  mine." 
CURTAIN:  Hand  in  hand,  bogus  street- 
cleaner  (in  white  helmet  but  without  his  false 
whiskers) ;  lovely  wife;  superintendent,  wearing 
top-hat  and  monocle. 

******* 

Well,  when  Tristram  Shandy  would  be  com 
ing  in,  his  handsome  feet  damp  with  morning 
dew  from  the  rolling  meadow,  and  the  superin 
tendent's  wife  would  be  scrubbing  the  stairs — 
she  would  up  from  her  knees  and  pull  a  "scene." 
Now  it  is  one  of  the  peculiarities  of  my  tempera 
ment  that  I  least  like  ladies  in  what  you  might 
call  their  scenic  moments.  I  have  unfortunately 
a  positive  aversion  to  hearing  a  scrubbing-brush 
banged  onto  a  near-marble  floor  and — but  I'll 
spare  you  the  details  of  these  horrible  encounters. 

On  top  of  that  was  this:  All  the  children  of 
Inwood,  it  seemed  to  me,  elected  to  gather  in 
social  intercourse  throughout  the  day  before  the 
entrance  to  the  house  where  I  had  my  apartment. 
And  young  Mr.  Shandy,  on  leaving  the  build 
ing  in  a  holiday  mood  similar  to  theirs,  and  seeing 
before  him  numerous  fellow  creatures  of  an  age 
corresponding  to  his  own,  naturally  bounded  to- 

[139] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

ward  them,  with  the  design  of  giving  them 
Good-day  in  the  form  of  affectionate  caress. 

I  should  perhaps  mention  in  passing  that  Tris 
tram  is  a  sheep  in  wolf's  clothing.  Honey  in  his 
heart,  hair  upon  his  chest.  Towering  and  fero 
cious,  apparently,  to  the  infant  vision.  One 
small  gamin  to  another  in  excited  admiration  at 
seeing  him  course  along  the  Battery:  "That  ain't 
no  dog!  That's  a  line!" 

Scattered  like  chaff  before  the  storm,  the  chil 
dren  at  my  door!  Terrible  hullabaloo!  All  fly 
screaming.  One  falls.  Blood  from  its  little  nose. 
Mothers,  from  every  direction,  rush  to  the  scene 
— fat  mothers,  and  lean;  mothers  robed  for  pub 
lic  appearance,  and  mothers  that  are  not,  as  the 
call  to  arms  has  taken  them.  The  dog!  The 
awful,  horrible  dog  has  killed  the  child! 

So  it  was,  you  see,  that  the  interest  of  a  firm 
of  gentlemen  following  the  profession  of  "rental 
agents  and  insurance"  became  attracted  to  me  be 
yond  the  other  tenants  of  this  building.  We 
struck  up  a  correspondence.  Divorcing  Tris 
tram,  of  course,  was  not  a  proposal  that  any 
reasonable  man  could  entertain. 

Luckily,  I  readily  found  another  apartment 
not  far  away — down  on  Fifteenth  Street.  When 
[140] 


THE  AUTHOR  WOOL  GATHERING 

I  came  to  pack  up  my  books  there  was  missing 
that  copy  of  mine  of  "The  Path  to  Rome."  Now 
what  was  that  fellow's  name  ?  And  where  d'spose 
he  lived? 


REWARD! 

AN  AFFECTIONATELY  INSCRIBED 

AUTHOR'S  PRESENTATION  COPY 

OF  THE  CELEBRATED  BOOK 


"WALKING-STICK  PAPERS" 

OFFERED  FOR  RETURN  OF  COPY  OF 

"THE  PATH  TO  ROME" 

BY  HILAIRE  BELLOC 

THE  RIGHTFUL  PROPERTY  OF  MURRAY  HIL1 

ADDRESS :  THE  PLAYERS,  NEW  YORK  CITY 

NO  QUESTIONS  ASKED 


[141] 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  EFFEMINACY  OF  PAJAMAS 

IT  is  customary  for  a  "travel  book,"  as  a  bit 
ago  I  was  at  the  point  of  saying,  to  have  at 
least  a  few  cathedrals  sprinkled  round  in  it  here 
and  there.  Just  now,  of  course,  I  cannot  tell 
how  many  cathedrals  I  may  meet  in  my  travels, 
but  (we  have  been  speeding  along  Pershing  Ave 
nue,  you  know)  Dr.  Clemens  introduced  me  to 
one — the  cathedral  in  St.  Louis  still  in  the  course 
of  construction — vast,  very  handsome,  its  archi 
tectural  inspiration,  I  believe,  the  abbey  at  West 
minster. 

At  the  Clemens's  home,  where  we  were  to  meet 
the  ladies  of  this  party,  we  discovered  that  in 
another  car  they  had  gone  on  ahead.  The  city 
dropped  away ;  the  countryside  took  us.  Father 
Wilbur  was  leading  the  discussion  of  religion. 
A  man  who  would  lead  in  anything,  and  never 
follow.  The  Presbyterians  (such  of  them  as 
read  this  book — and  I  hope  they  will  be  many, 
[142] 


THE  EFFEMINACY  OF  PAJAMAS 

for  I  have  an  aunt  who  is  a  Presbyterian),  the 
Presbyterians  may  be  interested  to  hear  that: 

"They  have  a  great  chance  to  do  a  roaring 
trade — a  roaring  trade! — if  only  they  could  see 
it.  What  they  need  is  to  put  on,  to  take  their 
book  of  Common  Prayer  and  put  on  a  high 
mass,  less  ceremonial,  and  in  English.  The  peo 
ple,  Protestants  of  all  kinds,  are  hungry  for  just 
such  a  thing.  A  roaring  trade!" 

The  road,  this  (I  was  told),  Grant  used  to 
travel,  hauling  his  wood  to  barter  in  the  town, 
and  back  again  after  a  good  drink  obtained  on 
the  yield  of  the  harvest.  There  now  (shooting 
by)  was  his  log  cabin,  guarded  (thus  the  effect) 
by  two  iron  deer  (or  maybe  stone) — noble  ani 
mals  who  fulfilled  the  double  function  of  also 
holding  the  gate  to  the  great  park  of  one  illus 
trious  in  history  as  a  brewer. 

FATHER  WILBUR:  "Belloc  and  Chesterton! 
Belloc  and  Chesterton  have  done  an  immense 
amount  of  harm.  An  immense  amount  of  harm! 
With  their  brilliant  pens,  their  wit  and  fervor, 
they  had  a  very  great  chance.  Wasted  it.  Worse. 
Threw  it  away." 

MURRAY  HILL:  "Holy  cat!  How  is  all  that?" 

FATHER  WILBUR:    "With  all  that  hilarious 

[143] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

pseudo-medievalism,  that  childish,  bumptious 
hostility  to  to-day.  Running  amuck  of  every 
thing  going.  Arousing  antagonism  to  the  Church 
among  the  hosts  ripe  to  enter  it." 

MURRAY  HILL:  "Why  I  should  have  said  the 
matter  was  a  good  deal  the  other  way.  That 
by  their  brilliant  pens,  their  wit  and  fascination 
of  literary  style,  they — Belloc  and  Chesterton — 
got  many  and  many  to  read  them  (first  simply 
as  writers)  who  never  would  have  read  them  as 
purely  Catholic  writers,  and  in  whom  thus  was 
sown  the  seed  of  attraction  toward  Catholicism." 

But  it  was  no  good,  this  friendly  view:  the 
Chester-Belloc  was  a  fantastic  animal,  an  ogre 
(where  a  great  apostle  should  have  been)  in  the 

"Path  to  Rome." 

******* 

That  watch  I  wound  so  thoroughly  in  Indian 
apolis — I  had  had  it  repaired.  Was  required  to 
leave  it  a  day  and  a  half  with  the  watch  man. 
No  time  to  go  by  all  that  while.  Got  the  watch 
again.  Experienced  that  sweet  sense  of  a  return 
to  well-being,  such  as  you  feel  when  you  have 
just  got  free  from  a  bad  cold  which  has  hung  on 
for  weeks.  .  .  .  Bang!  On  the  bathroom  floor! 

I  can  readily  understand  why  destiny  might 
[144] 


THE  EFFEMINACY  OF  PAJAMAS 

deem  it  wise,  for  his  ultimate  good,  that  a  man 
be  cast  into  jail,  or  be  stripped  of  his  inheritance, 
or  suffer  reverses  in  love;  but  the  secret  is  not 
revealed  to  me  why  the  fret  of  perpetual  diffi 
culties  with  a  nine-dollar  watch  should  shorten 
the  life  of  a  man — deprive  those  on  whom  he  is 
dependent  at  the  end,  perhaps,  of  the  charm  of 

his  society. 

******* 

What's  the  name  of  those  mountains  out  there  ? 
Ozark,  or  something  like  that.  This  Sunset  Inn 
place  is  atop  one  of  the  foothills,  as  I  suppose 
you  might  say,  of  those  mountains — they  rolling 
away  blue  in  the  distance,  in  that  way  mountains 
have,  or  at  least  have  had  ever  since  Japanese 
prints  came  in. 

My  hostess,  three  younger  ladies,  excellent — 
a  most  admirable — luncheon.  I  am  attacked,  be 
cause  I  told  the  truth,  as  it  had  not  before  been 
told,  in  my  very  penetrating  paper,  "The  Amaz 
ing  Failure  of  O.  Henry." 

YOUNG  PERSON  ON  MY  RIGHT:  "But  there 
is  a  great  merit  in  his  brevity.  Don't  you  think 
brevity  a  great  merit?" 

MURRAY  HILL:  "I  do — in  O.  Henry." 

Subject  of  discussion  switches  to  "free  verse." 

[145] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

YOUNG  LADY  ACROSS  THE  TABLE:  "Isn't  a 
part  of  its  kick  the  fact  that  it  sounds,  free  verse, 
so  like  free  love?" 

Talk  turns  to  "uplift."  SHE  AT  MY  RIGHT: 
"All  about  everywhere  these  days!  One  can 
never  get  away  from  it  any  more!  Oh!  why 
can't  there  be  something  just  real  bad  in  the 
world?" 

MURRAY  HILL  (gallantly) :  "I  have  a  number 
of  interesting  ideas  as  to  that,  but  they  are  so 
low  I  may  not  tell  them  to  any  one  but  you." 
(Most  chivalrous  thing,  I  think,  I  ever  said.) 

Present  a  young  Mrs.  Booker  (not  quite  the 
way  her  name  is  spelled) ,  something  of  a  writer, 
though  not  yet  in  a  very  professional  way.  Gen 
tleman  had  recently  remarked  to  her,  it  seems, 
on  the  beauty  of  St.  Louis  women.  Tapped  a 
tale  in  her  mind,  did  her  recollection  of  this. 

She  had  written  an  article  denying  the  high 
cost  of  living.  Idea:  things  cost  no  more  now, 
in  proportion  to  the  average  income  of  to-day, 
than  they  used  to;  money  has  become  so  easy, 
we  simply  think  we  need  more  things,  in  par 
ticular  more  luxuries  than  we  ever  knew  of  in 
more  wholesome  times.  Moral:  beat  it  back  to 
simpler  thought. 
[146] 


THE  EFFEMINACY  OF  PAJAMAS 

Article  was  accepted  by  a  woman's  journal  of 
which  it  may  be  you  have  heard.  On  way  to 
cash  check  in  payment  for  story,  author  strongly 
attracted  to  gold  meshbag  seen  in  window. 
Wrestles  with  temptation.  Asceticism  triumphs. 
Author  proceeds  on  course.  Comes  to  beautiful 
beauty  culture  parlor.  Is  thrown  by  the  tempter. 
Pays  down  full  amount  of  check  for  first  course 
of  treatment.  Still  taking  it.  Doesn't  know 
how  many  courses  by  now. 

FATHER  WILBUR  :  "But  what  put  the  utterly 
foolish  notion  into  your  head  that  you  needed 
any  such  thing  as  beauty  culture?" 

MURRAY  HILL:  "Quite  so!  And,  anyhow, 
didn't  I  say  that  the  first  thing  that  hit  you  about 
St.  Louis  was  the  beauty  of  its  women?" 

CHORUS:     "Where  did  you  say  this?" 

MURRAY  HILL:  "Put  the  story  in  the  mail 
last  night." 

CHORUS:  "Have  you  a  carbon  copy?  Produce 
it." 

Doubted;  no,  denied,  was  my  word,  because 
no  carbon  had  I.  But  I  had  said  it,  nevertheless ; 
and  I  call  to  witness  one  Eleanor  Kilmer  Sceva. 
"Eleanor,  your  qualifications  as  a  witness  in  this 
important  case  are  several.  First,  you  are  very 

[147] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

beautiful,  so  you  have  no  reason  to  be  influenced 
by  envy  of  beauty  in  others.  Again,  you  are  the 
niece  of  one  whose  memory  is  secure  unto  gener 
ations,  the  late  Joyce  Kilmer;  and  justice  and 
integrity  are  in  your  blood.  Further,  you  were 
publicity  man  at  George  H.  Doran  Company  at 
the  time  of  my  visit  to  St.  Louis,  and  had  held 
tenure  of  this  office  for  some  considerable  while ; 
thus  is  proven  that  you  have  much  alertness  of 
mind. 

"Eleanor,  you  know  that  never  before  the 
spring  of  this  year,  1920,  had  I  been  to  St.  Louis. 
You  can  readily  ascertain  in  the  correspondence 
files  in  your  office  the  date  of  my  departure  from 
Indianapolis.  Find,  then,  the  first  letter  I  wrote 
to  you  from  St.  Louis.  What  is  its  date?  (This 
to  establish  the  spontaneity  of  my  impression.) 
What  does,  then,  the  opening  paragraph  of  the 
letter  say? 

"Speak,,  woman!" 

*        *        #        #        *        #        #• 

Dr.  Clemens  and  I  strolled  about  a  floored  roof 
and  discussed  politics  of  the  hour,  and  the  Mor 
mons.  The  latter  subject  was  suggested  to  his 
highly  entertaining  mind  by  the  spectacle  nearby 
of  a  row  of  bath  houses  confronting  a  structure 
[148] 


THE  EFFEMINACY  OF  PAJAMAS 

of  more  size  and  authority,  all  at  the  rim  of  a 
large  swimming  pool — the  bath  houses  connotat 
ing  the  quarters  of  a  family  of  wives  and  the 
goodly  building  the  residence  of  the  head  of  the 
household. 

Something  on  the  order  of  a  handsome  hunt 
ing  lodge,  this  inn.  Our  party  reassembled  in  a 
club-like  room  opening  off  a  wide  central  hall 
ornamented  with  mounted  trophies  of  sport  in 
forest  and  river. 

What  was  the  status  of  two  dollar  bills  in  Mis 
souri?  Perfectly  good  money  there,  it  seems. 
And  the  subject  of  superstitions  led  on  the  talk 
to  the  engrossing  matter  of  prejudices.  One 
would  have  thought,  perhaps,  that  the  world  war 
would  have  knocked  out,  pretty  much  for  keeps, 
prejudices  one  time  very  common  against  a  cou 
ple  of  things  which  became  of  such  universal 
use  in  it. 

Not  at  all  a  long  memory  is  required  to  recall 
the  time  when,  to  the  mind  of  the  good  burgher, 
it  was  a  very  loathsome  thing  indeed  for  any  one 
to  smoke  a  cigarette.  Only  those  nincompoop 
beings  contemptuously  called  "dudes"  did  smoke 
them.  Also,  paradoxically  enough,  these  despic 
able  little  rolls  were  supposed  to  be  very  deadly, 

[149] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

and  it  was  the  fashion  to  refer  to  them  as  "coffin 
nails."  So  it  was  in  those  days.  .  .  .  Well,  some 
one  lit  a  cigarette  along  the  Rhine.  And  ciga 
rettes  began  to  glow  in  Flanders.  Cigarettes 
moved  out  from  England.  Cigarettes  poured 
across  the  seven  seas.  Cigarettes  and  cigarettes 
and  cigarettes!  Fortresses  and  cathedrals  fell, 
ministries  tumbled  and  dynasties  were  over 
thrown,  the  while  nurses  and  nuns  became 
tobacconists  and  dispensed  cigarettes  beyond  all 
range  of  computation. 

Kind  of  a  jolt  to  one,  then,  to  discover  round 
about  the  Middle  West  that  candidates  for  of 
fices  within  the  gift  of  the  people  are  forbidden 
by  their  groomers  to  smoke  cigarettes  while  en 
gaged  in  making  a  good  impression  in  the  rural 
districts — or  to  wear  wrist-watches  there. 

MURRAY  HILL:  "It's  curious,  too,  about  those 
two  prejudices,  as  cowboys  (who  certainly  have 
never  been  associated  with  the  idea  of  molly- 
coddlism)  have  always  smoked  cigarettes;  and 
wrist-watches,  long  before  the  great  vogue  they 
attained  in  the  recent  war,  were  worn  by  officers 
of  the  old  United  States  Army." 

MR.  LORD  :  "But  the  cowboys'  cigarettes,  and 
the  Mexicans',  were  the  'roll  your  own'  variety." 
[150] 


THE  EFFEMINACY  OF  PAJAMAS 

MRS.  BOOKER:  "While  aboard  a  mustang! 
Or  busting  bronco." 

MURRAY  HILL:    "One  hand  on  hip." 

MR.  LORD:  "And  I  think  it  would  be  found 
that  a  'tailor-made  cigarette'  didn't  go  with  them, 
either." 

The  idiosyncrasies  of  similar  prejudices  then 
taken  up :  The  aversion  among  the  plain  people 
at  one  time  to  "cuffs"  on  trousers.  In  the 
Middle  West,  till  not  long  ago,  the  popular  con 
tempt  for  duck  trousers,  or  "ice  cream  pants." 
And  the  notion  until  recently  rather  general  that 
there  was  something  snobbish  about  not  wearing 
suspenders.  Of  a  very  pleasant  prejudice  new  to 
me  I  heard,  too;  that  for  long  the  backbone,  so 
to  say,  of  Missouri  had  regarded  the  wearing  of 
pajamas  as  effeminate,  but  night-shirts  were 

masculine. 

******* 

No,  Mrs.  Booker  did  not  think  that  women  in 
politics  would  "ever  stand"  for  the  spread-eagle 
bunkum  of  the  usual  man-made  political  speech. 
They,  women,  wanted  (jolly  phrase!)  to  "take 
something  home  with  them." 

General  squabble  in  argument  precipitated  by 
this  assertion.  But  Mrs.  Booker  had  just  been 

[151] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

to  a  women's  political  gathering.  No  bombast; 
no  fustian;  no  sob  stuff;  practical,  sensible,  talk, 
to  the  point  throughout,  always  something  said 
that  you  could  take  home  with  you.  Well,  yes; 
it  was  fairly  generally  agreed  that  mainly  it  was 
rather  a  high  type  of  woman  that  was  now  doing 

the  political  speaking. 

******* 

"Speaking,"  the  topic  being  up,  there  was,  you 
know,  the  matter  of  that  speechifying  in  which  I 
was  involved.  And  a  terrible  bad  place  to  speak, 
St.  Louis,  I  heard.  No  rise  at  all  to  an  audience 
there.  Notorious,  this  was.  A  saying  among 
actors,  said  Father  Wilbur,  that  the  two  worst 
things  in  the  practice  of  their  profession  were  St. 

Louis  and  Holy  Week. 

******* 

Bounding  cityward.  But  five  of  us  of  the  party 
remaining  together.  Much  talk,  turning  now  to 
the  early  French  aristocracy  of  St.  Louis,  then 
on  the  Catholic  world  that  is  here,  and  again  on 
the  great  German  population  of  the  city.  I 
scented,  with  something  of  a  thrill  at  the  endur 
ing  romance  of  the  human  story,  the  vital  part 
played  in  social  caste  by  races  and  religions  here 
.  .  .  the  moving  forces  that  have  woven  the  rich 
[152] 


THE  EFFEMINACY  OF  PAJAMAS 

tapestry  of  history.  And  I  had  the  wish  that  my 
stay  was  to  be  much  longer  in  St.  Louis,  that  I 
might  have  unfolded  before  me  in  the  fullness 
of  its  color  and  intricacy  of  its  design  the  play  of 
these  various  social  elements  in  juxtaposition. 
Something  of  a  similar  situation,  of  course,  is  to 
be  found  in  any  spot  which  men  inhabit  in  any 
numbers;  but  I  got,  in  a  quick  impression,  the 
idea  that  in  St.  Louis  lines  are  perhaps  more 
sharply  drawn  and  unrelated  elements  more  com 
pact  than  is  the  case  everywhere.  Perhaps  not, 

though  I  hope  this  is  so. 

*         ****** 

Mrs.  Booker  had  recently  gone  to  an  atheistic 
funeral.  For  her  a  Latin  funeral! 

FATHER  WILBUR:  "Yes,  the  dignity  of  de 
tached  objectivity.  Freedom  from  sentimental 
ity,  there  is  a  great  need  for  more  of  it — a  great 
need!  I  talked  with  I  know  not  how  many 
doughboys  who  told  me  they  yearned  for  such 
a  thing." 

I  had  met  in  Indianapolis  the  trail  of  young 
Walpole;  in  St.  Louis  I  again  came  upon  the 
tracks  of  his  recent  clipping  about  over  here. 
Was  to  be  put  up  while  in  the  city  by  some  people 
living  rather  remote  from  the  center  of  things. 

[153] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

Couldn't  make  it  out  there  and  back  in  time  for 
his  lecture  the  night  of  his  arrival.  So  they,  per 
sons  having  his  doings  in  hand,  switched  him  for 
his  make-up  to  a  home  nearer  his  stage.  Now 
this  household  consisted  solely  of  women,  though 
of  that  he  was  in  no  way  advised.  "How,  then," 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Booker,  "could  he  have  known, 
and  instantly,  what  he  did!" 

Had  lost  his  dress-shirt  "studs."  Dire  predica 
ment!  Because,  glancing  quickly  about,  "You 
wouldn't,  of  course,  have  anything  like  that 
here." 

MRS.  BOOKER:  "Yes;  but  what  could  have 
told  him  that  there  was  not  a  father,  or  a  brother, 
if  not  a  husband,  about  here?  Oh,  no;  he  knew 

ft  right  off!" 

******* 

Interesting  case;  Father  Wilbur's  Roosevelt 
sonnet  sequence  stunt.  Never  before  had  felt 
the  impulse  to  write  anything.  "Kind  of  a  fit," 
he  declared,  suddenly  took  hold  of  him.  Worked 
like  fury  at  the  things  until  they  were  "finished," 
or  rather,  he  added,  until  he  was  "through  with 
them."  No  desire  since  to  write.  Doubted  much 
whether  he  would  ever  have  again. 

[154] 


CHAPTER  XI 

A  FAREWELL  FROM  WILLIAM   MARION  REEDY 

A  VERY  engaging  thing,  that,  a  very  en- 
-***  gaging  thing,  indeed:  Father  Wilbur's 
attitude  toward  writing.  Sound,  sensible,  whole 
some,  upright,  idea.  Man  doesn't  care  a  rap 
whether  he  writes  or  not.  Most  of  the  people  in 
the  world,  as  well  as  I  can  make  out,  are  unable 
to  rid  themselves  of  a  peculiar  notion  that  there 
is  some  reason  why  they  should  try  to  "write." 
What  is  it,  this  mysterious  property  possessed 
by  "writing,"  this  (apparently  universal)  mag 
netic  quality  exercised  by  the  thing?  Everybody 
doesn't  spend  his  evenings  studying  to  be  an 
acrobat,  does  he?  And  she?  And  that,  certain 
ly,  I  confess  to  regarding  as  presenting  the  effect 
of  a  highly  exhilarating  occupation. 

Have  I  not  for  years  as  publishers'  reader  and 
magazine  editor  been  "fed  up"  with  appeals  from 
persons  beyond  number  all  apparently  coveting 
beyond  all  other  satisfactions  in  life  the  prospect 

[155] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

of  getting  something  "published"?  Have  I  not 
in  the  exercise  of  my  profession  repeatedly  ex 
perienced  the  attempts  of  young  women  of  ex 
cellent  standing  to  pull  on  me  all  sorts  of  sex 
appeal  in  their  endeavor  to  enflame  in  their  be 
half  the  editorial  judgment?  Did  I  not,  shortly 
before  the  start  of  my  present  travels,  receive 
overtures  of  the  following  humorous  circum 
stances?  ...  A  gentleman,  and  (I  hope)  a 
Christian,  novelist  of  large  sales  and  admirable 
literary  reputation,  poet  of  talent,  playwright  of 
more  than  considerable  success,  unknown  to  me 
personally,  writes  me  a  letter,  professes  for  me 
enormous  esteem.  Declares  there  is  not  known 
to  him  by  fame  any  one  he  should  so  much  desire 
to  cultivate  meeting.  It  appeared  that  his  wife 
was  quite  one  with  him  in  these  sentiments :  could 
I  not  be  available  to  them  one  evening  soon,  very 
soon,  for  dinner?  And,  by  the  way,  his  wife  had 
recently  become  a  poet,  had  just  written  a  num 
ber  of  poems  of  remarkable  power,  acknowledged 
to  be  this  by  all  their  friends.  Having  to  do,  in 
a  way,  with  magazine  editing,  perhaps  I'd  be  in 
terested  in  seeing  several  of  these,  wrhich  he  en 
closed.  Conclusion  of  letter:  "One  poem,  one 
dinner."  Well,  I  wish  to  insert  here  in  this  book 
[156] 


A  FAREWELL  FROM  W.  M.  REEDY 

what  might  be  called  a  "reading  notice"  to  this 
effect:  I  accepted  this  proposal  in  good  faith; 
took  more  than  one  of  the  poems;  and  have  as 
yet  heard  nothing  further  concerning  this  din 
ner.  Also,  though  that  perhaps  is  a  matter  a  bit 
beside  the  point,  I  liked  the  poems,  actually,  and 
more  than  a  little. 

"Starring"  the  country,  then,  as  celebrated 
editor  and  author  (that,  naturally,  was  the  way 
my  press  agent  matter  went  out),  comes  round 
a  lady  to  my  hotel,  in  her  own  car,  woman  of 
means  and  social  position.  Now  there  is  a  great 
deal  of  secrecy  about  this  thing.  I  am  the  very 
person  she  has  been  wanting  for  years  to  find. 
You  see,  she  has  a  manuscript,  on  which  she  has 
spent  a  great  deal  of  toil.  (It  develops  that  this 
manuscript  is  several  thousand  pages  in  length, 
typed  single  space  and  with  practically  no  mar 
gins.)  She  could  not  bring  herself  to  submit  it 
to  a  publishing  house  until  she  had  received  some 
"friendly,  expert"  advice  upon  it.  She  cannot 
begin  to  tell  me  how  very  much  she  appreciates 
my  very  great  kindness,  given  to  a  stranger,  and 
busy  as  I  am,  and  all  that,  but  she  knows  I  will 
not  refuse  to  look  it  over.  What  she  really  wants 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

to  know  is  whether  she  is  "wasting  her  time  with 
her  writing,"  or  whether  she  "ought  to  persevere 
in  it."  Now  I'll  be  perfectly  frank,  won't  I? 

An  easy  enough  question,  that,  to  answer.  Take 
the  word  of  H.  G.  Wells  for  it.  He  says  some 
where  (in  effect)  that  the  most  remarkable  thing 
about  the  writing  bug  is  that  you  can't  kill  it 
with  a  club.  Take  Meredith  Nicholson's  word 
for  it,  as  delivered  across  one  of  the  tables  of  the 
very  pretty  and  quite  new  little  hotel  of  his  town, 
the  Lincoln:  that  no  one  can  "teach"  another 
the  art  of  writing,  beyond  imparting  a  few  con 
ventions  of  construction,  and  they  are  dangerous 
things,  too ;  that  if  any  one  really  has  the  writing 
instinct  he  finds  his  way  in  the  darkest  alley,  and 
nothing  short  of  death  can  stop  him  from  writing. 
Or  take  my  word  for  it:  that  if  nature  has  made 
you  a  writer  (which,  however,  I  regard  as  highly 
unlikely)  you  are  wiser  in  your  own  conceit  than 
twenty  men  who  can  render  a  reason  why  you 
are  wasting  your  time. 

Came  another  lady  to  my  hotel.  A  third  did 
press  me  by  telephone.  Several  by  letter.  Man 
uscripts  all  had  they.  And  the  matter  was  ur 
gent. 

******* 

[158] 


A  FAREWELL  FROM  W.  M.  REEDY 

I  sat  in  the  front  row  awaiting  my  turn.  Near 
est  to  me  among  the  speakers  for  the  day  were 
Dr.  Arthur  E.  Bostwick,  a  native  of  Connecti 
cut,  associated  in  his  career  as  editor  and  librarian 
with  various  publications  and  libraries,  editor  of 
the  Scientific  Department  of  The  Literary 
Digest  since  1891,  Librarian  of  the  St.  Louis 
Public  Library  since  1919,  and  author  of  several 
books;  and  Percival  Chubb,  born  in  England, 
twice  president  of  the  Drama  League  of  Amer 
ica,  and  a  writer  of  much  accomplishment  in  the 
field  of  ethics  and  religion.  I  was  at  my  new 
studies.  I  remember  a  number  of  years  ago  to 
have  seen  Albert  J.  Beveridge  leave  his  chair  as 
though  it  were  a  catapult  suddenly  brought  into 
action  upon  him  as  its  missile,  shoot  his  cuff s  at 
the  audience,  and  split  into  a  roar:  ffTMs  Time 
Fair  Play  Wins!"  I  recall  that  I  marveled  at 
the  electric  effect  of  this  line  on  his  hearers.  His 
argument  did  not  strike  me  as  compelling.  Cer 
tainly,  it  reads  simple  enough. 

And  there,  I  came  to  see  with  some  clearness 
when  I  entered  upon  a  professional  interest  in 
public  speaking — and  there  you  are!  A  thing 
may  read  beautifully,  and  it  won't  talk,  or 

[159] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

"speak"  at  all.  Conversely,  a  man  (if  he  is 
skilled  in  the  manner  of  doing  it)  can  spout  with 
very  fair  success,  and  even  more  than  very  fair 
success,  a  rigmarole  which  a  self-respecting  com 
positor  would  be  ashamed  to  set.  Did  I  not  but 
the  afternoon  before  listen  in  this  hall  to  as  ar 
rant  a  conglomeration  of  inane  bromidiams  as 
ever  was  lifted  in  one  lot  from  the  "exchange  col 
umns"  of  newspapers? 

Just  to  show  you  what  is  possible  in  this  world, 
though  I  would  not  have  believed  it  possible,  I'll 
retell  one  of  this  speaker's  witticisms.  No,  I 
haven't  the  heart  to  do  it. 

Nobody  egged  him,  this  humorist ;  no,  he  arose 
on  his  toes ;  smiled  blandly,  sublime  in  confidence 
in  the  security  of  his  effect ;  and  bowed  with  arro 
gant  modesty  to  a  hearty  hand. 

I  got  to  like  the  fellow,  rather,  myself.  When 
he  had  dumped  his  whole  stock  of  canned  goods 
on  us,  I  heard  a  man  in  the  rear  of  me  exclaim: 

"I  say,  he's  some  whirlwind!" 

******* 

The  speakers  to-day  were  not  of  the  "whirl 
wind"  sort.    While  I  felt  that  they  did  not  fail 
to  command  respect,  I  could  not  perceive  that 
they  were  nearly  so  much  enjoyed.    Admirable, 
[160] 


A  FAREWELL  FROM  W.  M.  REEDY 

in  particular  (to  my  mind)  was  Dr.  Bostwick, 
in  the  march  of  nis  thought.  His  subject:  "So 
cializing  the  Library."  But — an  evangelist  fre 
quently  is  not  a  diplomat. 

This  whole  show,  you  remember  ("Author's 
Week,"  as  the  program  entitled  it),  was  in  cele 
bration  of  the  opening  of  a  new,  and  a  large  and 
handsome,  bookstore  in  St.  Louis.  And,  natur 
ally,  it  was  staged  with  the  object  of  at  once  es 
tablishing  a  clientele  designed  as  a  flying  start  in 
the  business  of  selling  books,  at  this  store.  Our 
distinguished,  and  admirably  disinterested,  libra 
rian,  was  thinking  rather  of  reading  books :  that 
is,  of  the  commerce  of  the  mind,  and  how  best 
this  business  should  be  conducted.  And  through 
out  the  elaboration  of  his  theme  ran  the  refrain 
that  it  was  not  necessary  to  own  a  book  physic 
ally  in  order  to  possess  it  with  the  mind,  that  even 
a  few  great  books  sufficed  to  educate  a  man,  that 
it  was  not  wise  for  one  to  clutter  up  his  house 
with  all  the  new  books  that  came  out,  that  if  one 
had  a  desire  to  keep  abreast  of  all  that  was  the 
talk  of  the  hour,  let  him  come  to  the  Library  and 
take  out  these  volumes,  and  then  let  him  buy  in 
the  course  of  the  year  the  few  of  them  which  he 

[161] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

was  assured  his  spirit  required  to  abide  with 
him.  An  eloquent  discourse,  sound  in  wind  and 
limb — and  applauded  with  enthusiasm  by  the 
large  company  of  potential  book  buyers  which 

had  been  so  skillfully  assembled  there. 

******* 

I  am  very  eager  to  go  out  and  have  that  inter 
view  I  promised  myself  with  William  Marion 
Reedy. 

But  it  really  would  seem  that  I  ought  first  to 
give  my  own  lecture,  everybody  being  here  and 
everything.  I  have  got  hold  of  at  least  one  of 
the  prime  tricks  of  the  trade — you  long  since  will 
have  perceived  that  I  am  very  naive  in  this  mat 
ter.  As  I  am  in  all  that  I  write.  And,  indeed, 
that  is  art — the  simple  mind,  courageous  of  its 
simplicity;  the  innocent  eye  receiving  the  world 
as  though  no  eye  had  ope'd  upon  it  before. 

I  had  got  hold  of  the  knowledge  that  "lec 
turing,"  at  least  in  one  of  its  aspects,  is  much 
easier  than  writing  or  painting.  I  mean,  of 
course,  that  every  time  you  write  something,  an 
article,  an  essay,  a  poem  or  a  book,  or 
sculpture  something,  or  paint  something,  you 
"gotta"  go  and  create  something;  construct 
and  complete  something  you  never  got  away 
[162] 


A  FAREWELL  FROM  W.  M.  REEDY 

with  before,  something  new,  never  was  in 
the  world  before,  that  thing,  whether  good 
or  no  good.  But  (so  to  say)  once  you  have 
your  little  lecture  doped  out  you  can  go  on 
shootin'  it  all  over  the  lot.  "Not  at  all!"  inter 
rupts  Dr.  Richard  Burton,  the  veteran  lecturer 
(and  professor  and  author),  rising.  "Every 
time  you  face  an  audience  you  have  a  new  audi 
ence.  And  let  me  tell  you,  that  means  a  new 
appeal  is,  as  you  would  say,  'up  to  you.' ' 

"And,"  cries  out  Mr.  Heckler,  "what  about 
music?  Do  you  think  because  a  musician  plays 
over  and  over  again  the  same  composition  he 
does  not  each  time  expend  the  energy  of  recreat 
ing  the  spirit  of  it?" 

******* 

As  I  was  saying,  I  now  know  what  every  lec 
turer  knows:  that  you  can  kill  any  number  of 
birds  with  one  stone.  And  had  I  not  a  theme 
of  indisputably  universal  interest  ? 

HOW  TO  SUCCEED  AS  AN  AUTHOR 

So  I  began  as  I  had  begun  before:  "I  am  fre 
quently  asked  one  question.  And  that  is,  How 
to  attain  to  success  in  literature.  I  suppose  I  am 
asked  because  I  am  such  a  successful  author. 

[163] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

(Applause.)  As  last  winter,  you  know,  I  pub 
lished  two  books  in  one  day:  one  in  the  forenoon 
and  the  other  shortly  after  lunch.  (Titters.) 

"Now  some  people  say  that  this  is  a  question 
that  cannot  be  answered — that  no  one  can  tell 
another  how  to  become  a  successful  writer.  But 
that  idea  is  a  fallacy.  I  can  tell  you  in  six  words 
how  to  attain  to  success  in  literature.  (Breath 
less  excitement  throughout  the  house.) 

"The  matter  is  a  very  simple  one.  Though  for 
about  twenty  years  I  lived  in  poverty  and  was 
kicked  all  over  the  lot  because  I  did  not  know 
the  secret.  Then  suddenly  I  found  it,  the  key. 
The  way  to  do  the  trick  is  this : 

"By  the  exercise  of  sufficient  political  sagacity 
you  obtain  a  job  as  an  editor  of  a  first-rate  maga 
zine  and  literary  adviser  to  a  flourishing  publish 
ing  house — and  then  you  accept  all  your  own 
stuff.  (Dismay  in  audience.) 

"I'll  take  anything  that  I  write."     (Laughter 

and  cheers.) 

******* 

I  don't  know  whether  or  not  Catholic  Fathers 
are  not  subject  to  traffic  regulations.    What  I 
have  in  mind  is  this — or,  at  any  rate,  this  is  the 
way  I  am  coming  to  it. 
[164] 


A  FAREWELL  FROM  W.  M.  REEDY 

Doubtless,  you  were  much  struck  by  the  star 
tling  alteration  in  appearance,  a  year  or  so  ago, 
of  The  Queen's  Work.  You  will  recall  that 
formerly  your  copies  of  this  magazine  published 
by  the  Jesuit  Fathers  had  that  curious  effect  to 
the  eye  of  being  a  Sunday*  school  paper  pub 
lished  sometime  about  the  early  'forties.  Sud 
denly  revolutionized  in  format,  it  sprang  forth 
with  all  the  snap  and  modernity  of  The  Saturday 
Evening  Post.  It  is,  you  know,  my  friend,  Rev 
erend  Edward  F.  Garesche,  S.  J.,  who  is  the 
editor — or,  at  least,  who  was  for  long,  until  he 
sailed  the  other  day  for  a  year's  meditation  in 
Europe. 

A  Borrovian  literary  chronicle  such  as  this, 
ranging  through  St.  Louis,  a  deuce  of  a  thing 
'twould  be  to  leave  out  of  it  Father  Garesche, 
author  for  a  number  of  years  of  an  average  of 
four  books  (devotional  books)  a  year,  this  year 
seven. 

A  bland  young  man  (somewhat  short  of  "mid 
dle  life"),  in  whose  amiable  and  estimable  char 
acter  I  had,  from  the  outset  of  our  acquaintance, 
always  reposed  the  utmost  confidence  (until  this 
experience),  he  took  me  in  his  "tin  Lizzie"  (the 
tinniest  "tin  Lizzie"  I  ever  saw!)  for  a  spin  about 

[165] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

the  city.  'Atta  fierce  animal,  I  tell  you,  that 
"Lizzie"  of  his!  She  never  paused  (as  far  as  I 
can  recollect)  for  three  hours.  She  would  leap 
into  the  air,  and  come  down  with  the  sound  of  a 
large  can  of  nails  crashing  to  the  pavement  from 
aloft.  She  switched  round  corners  on  one  leg. 
Would  point  her  nose  toward  the  ground,  then 
rear  on  her  hind  feet.  It  seems  to  me  I  have 
heard  motorists  talk  about  "the  right  of  way"; 
my  dear  Father  Garesche  (if  he  had  ever  heard 
of  the  thing)  apparently  assumed  that  the  Lord 
had  given  it  always  to  him.  And  smiling  away 
like  a  house  afire,  he  never  left  off  discussing  the 
merits  of  religion,  our  common  friends,  and  St. 

Louis,  all  the  while. 

*         #         ##*•## 

Yes,  I  forgot;  once  we  stopped,  at  St.  Louis 
University.  I  think  I  felt  it,  or  least  something 
of  it:  its  romance,  its  beauty;  the  romance  of 
venerable,  ancient  tradition,  the  beauty  of  aus 
terity.  Dark,  and  in  effect  dusty,  within.  The 
long,  long,  black  corridors — through  them  strid 
ing  for  exercise,  to  and  fro,  silently,  each  alone, 
in  their  cassocks,  a  number  of  the  Fathers.  The 
tiny,  harsh  little  rooms  in  which  they  dwell !  In 
one,  a  gaunt  figure  smoking  a  pipe.  The  remote- 
[166] 


A  FAREWELL  FROM  W.  M.  REEDY 

ness  from  the  gleaming,  teeming  scene  at  the 
Statler!  The  remoteness  from  the  life  of  Mur 
ray  Hill,  fashionable  vagabond ! 

******* 

With  Dr.  Bostwick  to  luncheon  at  the  City 
Club,  a  populous  and  cheerful  organization  main 
taining  an  upper  floor  in  an  office  building  down 
town.  Holding  forth  at  what  I  heard  was  called 
the  "radical  table,"  Father  Wilbur.  Called  on 
this  group  on  our  way  out.  Present,  a  gentle 
man  whose  wife,  it  was  joyously  proclaimed,  was 
in  the  penitentiary.  Her  disagreement  with  the 
authorities  something  political.  "Though  the 
club  as  a  whole  really  is  rather  conservative  in 

flavor,"  said  Dr.  Bostwick,  as  we  passed  out. 

******* 

A  good  deal  of  the  time,  when  seated,  wears 
his  legs  tucked  under  his  bulk,  in  such  wise  as  to 
present  an  entertaining  resemblance  to  a  frog. 
Frequently  drops  open  his  mouth,  and  for  a  mo 
ment  lets  it  hang  so,  as  though  this  enabled  him 
the  better  to  think. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Reedy,  with  a  decidedly  sad 
expression,  "I  don't  suppose  the  stuff  will  ever 
come  back  again,  and  it  seems  to  be  becoming 
more  difficult  to  marry  all  the  while." 

[167] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

His  job,  he  said,  "couldn't  be  left  outside  the 
door  at  night."  It  was  too  much  for  one  man  and 
not  enough  for  two.  Of  his  own  stuff:  "It  goes 
well  enough  with  a  class  of  people  who  like  a 
slightly  radical  flavor ;  who  like  some  dress  to  the 
style,  and  yet  don't  want  to  see  a  fellow  wear 
spats  and  carry  a  little  cane."  Standing  very 
yellow  in  the  corner,  my  own  stick  gave  some 
thing  of  a  self-conscious  start,  I  felt. 

On  English  writing  versus  American  writing: 
"We,"  rather  wearily,  "all  write  for  money  over 
here — always  in  a  hurry — no  time,  no  time  to 
polish  up.  When  an  Englishman  gets  four  hun 
dred  pounds  a  year — enough  to  keep  his  top  hat 
— he's  satisfied. 

"Timeliness,  too,  is  our  curse.  Everything 
done  over  here  with  some  journalistic  point.  Take 
the  English  papers,  front  page  of  the  Spectator, 
no  timeliness  whatever.  Likely  to  give  the  whole 
thing  to  a  review  of  a  reprint  of  Cowper."  He 
greatly  admired  one  of  Gamaliel  Bradford's  re 
cently  published  "Portraits  of  American  Wom 
en."  "No  notion  of  timeliness  to  the  thing.  All 
writing  now  is  propaganda,"  he  said.  This  gave 
[168] 


A  FAREWELL  FROM  W.  M.  REEDY 

me  a  thought  which  had  not  occurred  to  me  be 
fore.     "Nearly  all,"  I  reflected,  "except  mine." 

Conrad?  For  the  fun  of  the  thing,  I  have  re 
cently  been  collecting,  as  you  might  say,  adverse 
opinions  on  Conrad.  There  seems  to  be  rising  a 
pronounced  anti-Conrad  tide.  Shortly  before  I 
left  New  York  I  was  much  amused  at  hearing 
A.  Edward  Newton  deliver  in  my  office  a  tirade 
against  the  acclaimed  supreme  master.  From 
Mr.  Nicholson,  on  my  way,  I  picked  up  this: 
"Conrad  writes  adventure  stories,  but  he  doesn't 
write  adventure  stories  as  adventure  stories 
should  be  written."  Mr.  Reedy 's  comment:  "I 
find  him  pretty  tedious." 

He  continued  his  solemnly  delivered,  humor 
ous  lamentations.  Our  job,  professional  read 
ing,  left  no  time,  no  energy,  for  any  real  reading: 
that  is  for  reading  purely  for  refreshment,  or  for 
the  good  of  one's  soul.  For  how  long  a  time  had 
he  wanted  to  re-read  Bos  well!  Also,  in  this  busi 
ness  a  man  got  so  he  couldn't  read  any  other  way 
— always  reading  against  time,  in  a  hurried, 
skipping,  professional  way.  Had  he  not,  not 
long  ago,  after  for  years  promising  himself  this 
pleasure,  again  taken  up  "Don  Quixote"? 

[169] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

Found  he  no  longer  had  the  patience  to  deliver 
himself  over  to  the  spell  of  that  glorious  book. 

Yes,  one  got  a  hardening  of  the  intellectual 
arteries.  He  did  not  go  anywhere  much  any 
more.  The  last  time  he  was  on  East,  and  with 
the  boys  (these  juvenile  characters  being  Tom 
Daly,  A.  Edward  Newton  and  Christopher  Mor- 
ley ) ,  it  bored  him,  almost,  to  listen  to  the  prattle 
of  their  enthusiasm;  to  feel  from  apart  the  rosy 
glow  of  youth  in  which  they  lived  in  a  sort  of 
fairyland  of  books  and  affairs. 

"Yes;  youth  is  the  thing;  that's  the  great,  the 
only  gift!  All  that  stands  is  the  voice  of  youth. 
Nobody  ever  produced  anything  after  he  was  no 
longer  young.  Call  the  roll/'  he  said,  and  he 
began  .  .  . 

"Not  always,"  I  replied,  "there  are  excep 
tions." 

"Name  them!"  he  cried. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "wasn't  Defoe  fifty,  sixty, 
seventy,  or  something  like  that  when  he  wrote 
'Crusoe'?" 

"Oh!"  he  exclaimed;  "but  he  wrote  of  his 
youth;  that's  the  only  way  it  is  done." 

I  don't  know  about  that,  altogether.  The 
idea  is  an  excellent  theme  for  an  essay ;  and  when 
[170] 


A  FAREWELL  FROM  W.  M.  REEDY 

I  return  from  my  travels  I'll  turn  the  matter 
over  in  my  mind,  and  see  what  may  be  made  of 
it.  Anyhow,  there's  a  great  deal  of  truth  in  what 
he  said.  And  I  let  him  have  his  way. 

Where  was  my  trip  taking  me? 

Eventually,  I  replied,  to  California.  Ah!  he 
had  been  thinking  of  going  out  to  the  Demo 
cratic  convention.  "But,"  he  stopped  suddenly, 
as  though  arrested  by  a  disturbing  thought; 
"anybody  found  out  there  is  liable  to  be  nomi 
nated!"  And  a  ringing  burst  of  Chestertonian 
laughter,  as  (both  of  us  bowing)  I  crossed  his 
threshold,  was  his  parting  word.  A  noble  mon 
ument,  forever  fixed  in  my  mind! 


[171] 


CHAPTER  XII 

MRS.  JOYCE  KILMER  AT  WALNUT  HILLS 

HEARD  about  the  murder?"    He  bellowed 
the  question,  this  very  ruddy,  very  fat 
man  who  was  shaving. 

I  had  been  intending,  so  to  say,  to  take  up  the 
Mississippi  River  as  I  was  taking  leave  of  that 
classic  stream.  But,  as  you  see,  my  attention 
was  distracted. 

He  had  that  grotesquely  rotund  effect  pre 
sented  by  a  fat  man  in  an  undershirt.  His  stocky 
legs  (encased  in  loud  checks)  were  planted  far 
apart,  his  back  toward  us,  his  chubby  chin  lifted 
as  far  as  it  would  go  upward,  as  he  scraped  his 
bulky  throat.  His  recognized  (and  ardent)  au 
ditor,  a  lanky  negro  (with  a  very  pimply  face) 
seated  in  the  washroom  smoking  a  pipe. 

"That's  what  she  says,  'Heard  about  the  mur 
der?'  'In  Dallas?'  I  says.  'In  Dallas,  hell!' 
Nell  says;  'right  there  on  that  bed  what  you  slept 
in  last  night!'  She  pulled  back  a  piece  of  carpet 
and  there  on  that  new  pine  floor  they  had  there, 
[172] 


MRS.  KILMER  AT  WALNUT  HILLS 

was  a  great  big  spot  of  blood.  Then  she  turned 
down  the  sheets  and  there  was  a  bran'  new  mat 
tress — I  guess  the  other  one  hadda  been  soaked." 

"Didn't  it  make  you  nervous,  havin'  jess  slep' 
in  that  bed?"  inquired  the  negro;  eyeing  the  fat 
man  with  something  like  pride  in  being  in  such 
close  proximity  to  one  who  had  recently  had 
such  an  awful  experience. 

The  fat  man  lowered  his  razor,  turned  and 
faced  the  other,  looking  at  him  with  pop  eyes. 
Then  he  burst  into  an  enormous  guffaw:  "I  didn't 
stay  there  no  more  nights !"  He  returned  to  his 
shaving  apparently  hugely  amused  at  his  recol 
lection  of  the  fright  he  had  got. 

The  circumstances  of  this  crime  as  they  had 
been  presented  in  the  local  papers  were  discussed. 
"Yes,"  remarked  the  fat  man,  "it's  the  wimmin 

do  all  the  shootin'  in  Texas." 

*####*# 

The  newsman  entered  the  compartment  with 
a  pile  of  magazines.  "Do  you  read?"  he  asked. 
I  shook  my  head,  "No." 

«•'****  t        .4 

I  was  back-tracking  to  Cincinnati,  having  an 
appointment  there  which  could  not  be  made  at 
any  other  time.  I  was  much  struck  by  the  sky. 

[173] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

The  idea  occurred  to  me  that  one  of  the  spiritual 
and  esthetic  advantages  of  riding  on  trains  is 
the  excellent  opportunity  this  gives  you  for  con 
templating  and  reflecting  upon  the  sky.  Not 

Upon  that  little  tent  of  blue 
Which  prisoners  call  the  sky. 

A  vast  thing!  Full  (on  a  day  like  this)  of 
'rich  argosies,  great  chariots,  and  noble  chargers. 
Now,  it  is  a  curious  thing,  when  I  look  at  the  sea 
I  realize  what  a  tiny  atom  I  am;  and  I  feel 
very  small  indeed  inside ;  but  when  I  look  up  at 
the  great  sky  I  seem  to  expand  inside;  and  my 
spirit  becomes  very  large,  akin  to  the  spirit  of 
the  sky.  Those  who  are  soothsayers,  or  whatnot, 
,let  them  answer  me  with  the  reason,  Why  is  that? 

Then  in  the  distance  I  saw  moving  along  close 
to  the  ground  a  black  little  storm.  Out  of  it 
spat  angry,  jagged  little  forks  of  lightning. 
And  a  torrent  stood  straight  between  it  and  the 
little  patch  of  earth  over  which  it  was.  And  I 
thought:  now  the  people  who  are  experiencing 
this  storm  do  not  feel  that  at  the  moment  a  little 
storm  is  passing  over  their  plot  of  land,  but  to 

them  it  seems  that  the  universe  is  in  convulsion. 

******* 

Now  I  am  accustomed  to  having  things  done 
[174] 


MRS.  KILMER  AT  WALNUT  HILLS 

with  dispatch.  I  went  into  the  dining-car  for  a 
meal,  and  I  was  exasperated,  as  I  always  am 
on  dining-cars,  by  (as  it  seemed  to  me)  the  de 
linquency  of  the  service.  The  waiters  in  a  "diner" 
seem  sufficient  in  proportion  to  the  number  of 
tables  to  be  served.  Why  does  it  always  take 
them  such  an  unconscionable  time  to  fetch  any 
thing?  Particularly  was  I  annoyed  this  day  by 
the  wait  for  my  check.  I  communicated  my  dis 
pleasure  to  the  gentleman  opposite  to  me. 
"Well,"  he  said,  "you  can't  possibly  go  anywhere 
but  on  this  train;  what  difference  does  it  make?" 
I  hadn't  thought  of  this ;  and  as  I  went  from  the 

car  I  pondered  the  idea. 

******* 

Well,  I  had  it!  The  reason  you  want  to  es 
cape  from  a  dining-car  instantly  you  have  eaten 
is  simple  enough — because  you  can't  smoke  there. 
Consideration  of  this  infelicity  of  dining-cars 
probably  it  was  (turning  my  thought  to  evil 
things) ,  put  me  in  mind  of  one  of  the  deplorable 
results  of  prohibition.  And  this  matter  let  me 
consider: 

I  think  it  will  be  found,  when  the  roll  is  called 
and  (like  Colonel  Newcome  in  the  dress  of  the 
poor  gray  friars)  I  answer  "adsum,"  that  I,  as 

[175] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

little  as  (almost)  any  man,  have  not  failed  to 
place  due  value  on  the  pleasure  of  the  society  of 
women.  Even  so,  I  have  always  held  it  as  a 
work  of  his  wisdom  that  civilized  man  had  fash 
ioned  one  citadel  against  their  charms,  had  held 
one  sanctuary  to  masculinity,  one  place  inviolate 
— that  is,  his  Club.  What  havoc  then  to  a  mind 
which  had  accepted  this  order  of  things  as  be 
neficent  and  enduring,  immutable,  to  discover 
frequently  in  the  Middle  West  women  in  clubs, 
excellent  clubs !  Have  they  not  their  own  clubs 
(so  called),  sacred  to  their  sex?  The  reason  for 
this  new  order  of  things,  I  was  told,  was  that 
since  the  closing  of  the  bars  club  revenue  had  so 
fallen  off  it  had  been  deemed  expedient  to  open 
club  dining-rooms  to  women,  so  to  increase  pa 
tronage  there. 

******* 

This  narrative  has  business  in  Cincinnati,  and 
so  I  must  be  getting  on  to  that  city.  But  one 
of  these  times  I  am  going  to  write  an  article  (or 
maybe  it  will  be  a  book)  about  railway  journeys, 
and  the  excellent  things  that  they  are  for  intro 
ducing  a  man  to  himself  and  cementing  a  friend 
ship  founded  upon  multitudinous  interests. 
******* 

[176] 


MRS.  KILMER  AT  WALNUT  HILLS 

You  wouldn't  think  that  a  pleasant  city  like 
Cincinnati  would  harbor  such  a  wicked  cabman 
as  there  is  there.  He  charged  me  double  what 
an  honest  cabman  would  to  drive  me  from  the 
station  to  my  hotel. 

At  my  hotel  they  must  have  thought  I  was 
some  sort  of  superstitious  gambler.  I  drew  room 
number  711.  And  on  going  to  dinner  the  coat- 
room  girl  gave  me  check  number  seven. 

I  saw  in  the  papers  that  I  was  to  speak  "before 
a  gathering  of  Cincinnati  literati"  in  an  "audi 
torium"  somewhere  down  town  at  two  o'clock  the 
next  afternoon.  Also,  I  encountered  the  news 
that  Mrs.  Joyce  Kilmer  was  to  give  a  lecture  at 
three  o'clock  on  the  same  afternoon,  at  the  wom 
en's  club — wherever  that  might  be.  Mrs.  Joyce 
Kilmer?  It  seemed  to  me  I  had  heard  that  name 
before.  Perhaps  it  was  the  lady  to  whose  daugh 
ter  Rose  I  had  stood  godfather.  Perhaps  it  was 
the  lady  at  whose  house  I  had  stayed  for  months 
on  end,  time  and  again.  Perhaps  this  was  the 
widow  of  Joyce  Kilmer — my  friend  in  sickness 
and  in  health,  in  sorrow  and  in  joy,  in  adversity 
and  in  success,  now  as  then  first  in  the  house  of 

[177] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

my  heart,  and  on  whose  like  I  shall  never  look 

again.    Perhaps  this  was  Aline! 

******* 

I  opened  a  letter.     It  began: 

"I  suppose  you  are  in  Cincinnati  to-day,  and  I 
hope  you  are  well  and  comfortable.  Your  father 
and  I  spent  the  first  week  that  we  were  married 
in  Cincinnati.  We  stopped  at  the  Burnett 
House.  That  was  forty-seven  years  ago." 

You  may  think  that  is  just  a  letter;  but  I  will 
tell  you  that  is  history.  "Forty-seven  years  ago" 
Cincinnati  was  the  Athens  of  the  Ohio  Valley, 
the  Paris  of  the  Middle  West,  a  fair  and  ( in  that 
broad  and  provincial  land)  a  fabled  city,  the  me 
tropolis  (mother)  of  fashion  and  of  culture. 
When  I  was  a  boy  I  heard  frequently  with  won 
der  (from  those  who  were  "traveled")  of  the 
great  sights  of  the  world:  the  "inclined  plane" 
and  the  "zoological  garden"  in  Cincinnati.  And 
sometime  before  I  was  a  boy,  frocks  that  were 
distingue  were  imported,  by  those  who  were  great 
in  my  part  of  the  world,  from  Cincinnati. 
Thither  (to  the  "conservatory"  there)  went 
those  of  the  young  who  were  of  high  refinement 
for  the  best  education  in  music  to  be  had,  and 
thither  (William  M.  Chase  among  them,  and  an 
[178] 


MRS.  KILMER  AT  WALNUT  HILLS 

uncle  of  mine,  too)  went  these  who  would  be 
students  of  painting,  and  there,  in  those  days, 
were  published  magazines  (look  them  up  in  the 
library)  of  a  type  of  sheer  literary  excellence 
better  than  anything  we  now  have  to  show. 

"Your  father  and  I  spent  the  first  week  that 
we  were  married  in  Cincinnati."  Yes,  so  it  would 
have  been.  For  all  that  region  round,  a  genera 
tion  ago,  Cincinnati  (soft  and  lovely  name) 

meant  their  wedding  journey,  too. 

******* 

Then  it  was  my  old  friend,  John  G.  Kidd,  of 
Stewart  and  Kidd  Company,  booksellers  there, 
gave  a  luncheon  at  the  Business  Men's  Club,  a 
club  of  excellent  appointment. 

Enters  here  one  Howard  Saxby,  the  gentle 
man  who  is  to  "introduce"  me,  a  veteran  jour 
nalist  and  lecturer  (old  war-horse  sort  of  char 
acter)  ,  and  a  personage  I  most  certainly  should 
not  have  cared  to  miss.  A  man  of  middle  age, 
generous  bulk,  and  courtly  presence:  tail  coat, 
braid  around  the  edges ;  dull  red  handkerchief  in 
breast  pocket;  cane;  English  born,  thoroughly 
Americanized;  old  friend  of  Riley;  runs  SCUE- 
by's  Magazine,  writes  a  brilliant  column  in  the 
Cincinnati  Commercial-Tribune  headed  "Curb- 

[179] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

stone  Gossip,"  and  contributes  to  this  paper  a 
feature  called  "Saxby's  Salmagundi"— "That 
Tailor's  Bill  of  Mine"  appeared  while  I  was 
there,  with  "apologies  to  Riley's  'Old  Sweetheart 
of  Mine/  " 

Discussed,  did  Saxby,  the  recent  "foreign  in 
vasion"  of  the  United  States  by  our  literary 
brothers  from  across  the  waters.  His  opinion 
that:  "Our  authors  are  rushed  too  quickly  to  the 
front — too  soon  shelved."  And  (highly  engag 
ing  lining)  an  ardent  Dickensian,  he.  Much  in 
censed  by  something  Walpole  had  said  in  one  of 
his  Cincinnati  lectures.  "What  the  devil  did  he 
mean — what  right  has  he  got  to  say  that  Dickens 
had  no  business  to  write  'Bleak  House'?" 

Talks  like  this: 

"I  have  always  had  difficulty  in  telling  Mur 
ray  Hill  and  Booth  Tarkington  apart.  They 
look  so  different. 

"When  one  comes  to  think  about  it,  it  really 
is  strange  how  much  alike  these  litry  fellers  all 
look. 

"Stephen  Leacock  looks  like  a  cross  between 
George  Bernard  Shaw  and  the  late  Marshall  P. 
Wilder. 
[180] 


MRS.  KILMER  AT  WALNUT  HILLS 

"Have  you  ever  seen  Joseph  Hargesheimer  ? 
Well,  he  reads  all  right. 

"E.  Phillips  Oppenheim  and  Hugh  Walpole 
might  well  be  taken  for  twins  'in  the  dark  with 
a  light  between  them.' 

"I  (myself)  was  once  taken  for  Henry  Wat- 
terson,  until  I  proved  by  showing  a  receipt  that 
I  had  settled  my  tab  at  the  Pendennis  Club  the 
night  before. 

"Christopher  Morley  has  often  been  mistaken 
for  Mary  Roberts  Rinehart,  and  J.  M.  Barrie 
and  Brander  Matthews  could  use  the  same  knife 
and  fork  without  knowing  the  difference — until 
afterward. 

"Hewitt  Handsome  Rowland  told  me  he  once 
gave  a  royalty  check  to  George  Ade,  thinking 
he  was  giving  the  certified  piece  of  paper  to  John 
Burroughs. 

"Richard  Le  Gallienne  strongly  objects  to 
being  stopped  on  the  street  and  asked:  'This  is 
Mr.  William  J.  Locke,  is  it  not?' 

"Meredith  Nicholson  (fine,  whole-souled 
chap)  is  often  taken  for  the  lamented  Elizabeth 
B.  Browning,  especially  when  driving  about  In 
dianapolis  in  his  Ford. 

"Maurice  Maeterlinck  could  fill  a  lecture  date 

[181] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

for  William  Jennings  Bryan  without  any  one 

in  the  audience  distinguishing  the  difference." 

******* 

Mr.   Saxby:  "Ladies  and  gentlemen,  this  is 
Mr.  Murray  Hill.     Mr.  Hill,  this  is  the  audi 


ence." 


I  arose,  placed  my  unfortunate,  nickel-plated 
watch  on  the  table,  and  delivered  my 

ADDRESS 


I  don't  know  how  it  strikes  you,  but  I'll  tell 
you  how  it  strikes  me.  I  find  it  somewhat  dis 
concerting.  That  is  this :  You  are  looking  down 
at  that  impressionist  painting  of  a  roomful  of 
faces — which  is  your  "audience."  (Looks  very 
much  as  though  Manet  had  painted  it.)  Now 
and  then,  here  and  there,  a  face  or  figure  defines 
itself  more  distinctly  against,  so  to  say,  the  can 
vas;  stands  out,  to  put  it  so,  from  the  frame; 
then  fades  again  into  place.  Thus  in  Cincinnati 
suddenly  appeared  vividly  before  me  several 
ancient  gentlemen,  sitting  in  a  row,  obviously 
very  deaf,  bending  forward,  each  with  hand  (like 
a  fan)  to  his  right  ear. 

I  cut  my  talk  fifteen  minutes  short.  Me  for 
[182] 


MRS.  KILMER  AT  WALNUT  HILLS 

the  Woman's  Club!  Said  a  lady  in  the  press: 
"Are  you  going  to  hear  Mrs.  Kilmer?"  She 
meant  it  as  a  question.  I  took  it  as  an  invitation. 
"Yes,  indeed,"  I  said;  "come!"  And  I  took  her 
arm  and  moved  her  through  the  throng.  I  waved 
my  stick  at  a  waiting  taxi  across  the  street  be 
fore  the  Sinton.  The  lady  was  a  bit  startled. 
She  said:  "But,  you  know,  I  have  a  family."  But, 
figuratively  speaking,  I  threw  myself  on  her 
like  a  ton  of  brick.  "That's  all  right,"  I  replied, 
"with  me.  Where  to?"  She  told  the  man,  and 
away  we  went. 

She  was  a  very  attractive  lady.  Youthful  and 
handsome  and  engaging  in  manner.  I  do  not 
know  her  name.  Though  she  became  so  friendly 
as  to  tell  me  about  several  books  she  had  pub 
lished,  she  retained  her  embarrassment  through 
out  the  drive. 

******* 

A  charming  little  theater,  that  interior.  The 
stage,  a  frame  of  soft  golden  light. 

I  had  never  "heard"  Mrs.  Joyce  Kilmer.  But 
I  quite  understood  that  she  could  not  really  "lec 
ture."  For  one  thing,  she  had  always  been 
(throughout  the  years  of  my  knowledge  of  her) 
altogether  a  home  sort  of  woman.  To  dances, 

[183] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

no;  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing!  Nor  to  card 
parties;  I  should  have  been  decidedly  amazed 
(not  to  say  shocked)  had  I  ever  heard  of  her 
being  at  one.  About  as  much  of  a  suffragette 
as  I  am.  Not  a  singer,  a  motorist,  a  tennis  play 
er;  the  author,  occasionally  and  in  a  very  quiet 
way,  of  a  beautiful  poem,  yes;  now  and  then 
"poured"  at  the  Author's  Club,  on  ladies'  day. 
Reading,  very  desultory.  Her  only  deep  in 
terests:  her  husband,  her  children,  her  house. 
Though  a  decoration,  indeed,  and  a  very  charm 
ing  presence.  It  was  to  me  about  as  congruous 
to  think  of  her  as  a  traveling  lecturer  as  to  think 
of  her  as  a  tight-rope  performer. 

Then,  of  course,  her  voice  did  not  "carry." 
"Everybody"  said  so,  who  had  heard  her  at  the 
outset  of  her  career  as  a  lecturer  a  couple  of  years 
ago.  But — she  was  very  brave — and  people 
flocked  to  hear  her  (or  to  see  her),  of  course, 
because  of  her  fame. 

A  sudden  hush.  She  had  entered  back  stage, 
and  (a  flexible,  perfectly  symmetrical  figure 
sheened  in  her  frock  of  black)  tripped  with  a 
rhythmic,  swinging  lightness  (no  one  else  walks 
as  she)  to  her  chair  at  the  front.  While  a  lady 
[184] 


MRS.  KILMER  AT  WALNUT  HILLS 

who  appeared  to  be  much  skilled  in  such  Par 
liamentary  matters  pronounced  a  few  appropri 
ate  preliminary  periods,  she  looked  demurely  at 
the  floor  before  her.  Her  head  generously  wound 
in  its  plaited  coils  of  brown;  her  features  cut 
like  a  Grecian  marble.  (I  would  admit,  if  I 
thought  she  would  forgive  me,  that  I  was  a  bit 
startled,  and  then  somewhat  amused,  at  how  de 
mure  the  situation  made  her.) 

She  stood,  very  erect,  chin  slightly  tilted,  look 
ing  far  away  straight  before  her,  one  arm  lightly 
resting  across  the  top  of  a  little  reading-stand. 
Girlhood,  she  looked,  newly  come  to  perfect 
bloom.  She  began  in  a  little  voice  that  soared  out 
over  that  space  like  a  bird  high  in  the  sky.  It 
rang  clear  and  sweet  like  the  sound  of  a  silver 
bell.  Dew  was  on  the  breath  of  it,  and  all  man 
ner  of  fragrant  things.  Elves  were  in  it,  too, 
innocent  mischievous  sprites. 

She  told  with  a  kind  of  brotherly  sympathy, 
and  with  some  sly  amusement,  of  women  who 
were  poets,  many  of  them  her  personal  friends. 
Her  quotations  were  delivered  in  a  sort  of  queer, 
bewitching  chant.  She  was  all  simplicity — she 
was  all  naturalness.  Complete  was  her  triumph! 

[185] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

As  a  penetrating  critic  of  art,  I  was  stunned. 
For  this  thing  which  Aline  had  prepared  was 

consummate. 

******* 

In  the  evening  with  Mr.  Kidd  to  a  meeting  of 
the  Literary  Club ;  an  association  of  one  hundred 
members;  oldest  organization  of  its  kind,  I  was 
told,  in  the  country;  entire  membership  at  that 
time  went  to  the  Civil  War.  In  its  archives  many 
souvenirs  of  its  venerable  years.  On  the  walls 
of  its  rooms  the  book  plate  of  Laurence  Sterne, 
portraits  of  Goldsmith,  Dr.  Johnson,  and  so  on, 
and  this  legend:  "Here  comes  one  with  a  paper." 
Members  are,  undoubtedly,  men  of  substance; 
and  here  comes  one  with  a  paper  dealing,  per 
haps,  with  history,  or  politics,  or  archeology,  or 
education,  or  economics,  or  law,  or  religion,  as 

likely  as  with  literature. 

*****         r#         # 

I  noticed  a  thing  in  my  jaunt.  This:  when 
anywhere  about  the  country  you  meet  what 
might  be  called  a  real  writer — that  is,  a  profes 
sional  novelist,  or,  say,  a  journalist  of  national 
reputation,  you  find  that  he  looks  very  much  like 
anybody  else;  he  might  be  a  banker,  a  lawyer, 
real  estate  man,  commission  merchant,  hotel  pro- 
[186] 


MRS.  KILMER  AT  WALNUT  HILLS 

prietor,  or  anything  at  all.  That's  the  way  I 
look,  too.  But  when  you  meet  somebody  in  the 
advertising  business  he  is  very  likely  to  be  very 
literary  in  effect :  large  flowing  black  tie,  shell- 
rimmed  eye-glasses,  and  so  on.  Tell  me  about 

that! 

******* 

I  don't  know  where  to  say  the  house  is.  We 
started  from  the  upper  reaches  of  Walnut  Hills 
and  came  down  into  a  district  which  appeared 
to  be  an  older  part  of  Cincinnati.  Then  we  could 
not  readily  identify  the  house  we  sought.  There 
was  one  which  one  of  my  friends  thought  might 
be  it.  A  very  plain,  ordinary  house.  The  porch 
had  been  torn  away  and  a  box  (built,  probably, 
to  contain  canned  goods  in  shipment)  served  as  a 
step  to  the  front  door.  As  we  got  out  of  the  car 
a  little,  sparrow-like  lady  opened  the  door  and 
gave  us  welcome. 

The  lady?  Why,  I  thought  I  had  told  you. 
Mrs.  Mary  S.  Watts,  of  course.  We  had  a  very 
pleasant  call.  Nobody  said  anything  of  the 
slightest  consequence.  While  we  were  talking 
in  came  the  lady's  husband  (unaware  of  any 
"company")  getting  some  things  together  for  a 
railway  journey.  A  ruddy,  hearty,  sportsman- 

[187] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

like  gentleman,  to  whom  you  would  have  taken 

a  decided  fancy. 

******* 

I  always  like  a  waitress.  They  are  a  very 
human  kind  of  beings.  I  must  tell  you  about 
one  with  whom  I  became  acquainted  in  Cincin 
nati.  She  was  a  very  plump,  cheerful  person. 
Told  me  she  worked  eleven  hours  a  day,  seven 
days  a  week.  I  said,  "My  goodness!"  This 
seemed  to  me,  in  the  circumstances,  a  rather  mild 
exclamation.  She  replied:  "I  enjoy  it  more 

than  anything  else  I  do." 

******* 

I  contemplated  them  a  good  deal,  those  men 
who  sit  and  sit,  hour  after  hour,  in  hotel  lobbies, 
doing  absolutely  nothing.  There  are  great  num 
bers  of  them,  everywhere,  in  every  city.  Middle 
aged,  most  of  them,  the  men  I  mean,  well  dressed, 
well  fed.  They  don't  read ;  they  don't  talk ;  they 
don't  appear  to  be  particularly  observing  the 
scene.  They  just  sit.  And,  as  George  Moore 
says  of  some  one,  their  life  going  by  all  the  while. 
It  may  be  that  they  are  reflecting  on  the  mystery 
of  their  lives.  I  think  that,  however,  improbable. 
I  think  it  likely  that,  if  they  were  asked  what 
they  were  doing,  they  would  reply  that  they  were 
[188] 


MRS.  KILMER  AT  WALNUT  HILLS 

waiting  for  the  next  train.  They  might  be  an 
noyed  if  you  should  tell  them  that  they  are  also 
waiting  for  the  last  train — for  the  time  when 
each  of  them  will  have  a  train  entirely  to  his  own 
honor,  all  the  passengers  his  relatives  and  friends, 
and  he  will  ride  alone  in  state  in  the  club  car  up 
ahead. 


[189] 


CHAPTER  XIII 

E.  V.  LUCAS  FOOLS  CHICAGO 

/CHICAGO  has  been  maligned.  The  world 
^-S  has  been  deceived  about  that  city.  I  must 
set  this  matter  aright. 

My  last  (and  only)  visit  to  Chicago  before 
this  was  at  the  time  of  the  World's  Fair.  I  went 
in  the  charge  of  my  mother.  Spacious  accom 
modations  were  not  obtained  for  me.  I  remem 
ber  that  I  slept  in  a  closet.  My  principal  im 
pression  of  the  city,  during  the  years  since,  was 
that  they  had,  in  some  places,  board  sidewalks 
there. 

It  was  night.  That  is  the  time  to  arrive  in 
Chicago.  Do  just  as  I  did.  We  (the  lady  with 
whom  I  had  traveled  from  Cincinnati  and  I) 
emerged  from  the  Illinois  Central  Station  at 
Twelfth  Street,  or,  as  I  believe  the  block  there 
is  called,  Park  Row.  I  loaded  our  things  into  a 
cab  and  we  turned  into  a  purring  stream  of  other 
glow-worm  cars  up  the  noble,  slightly  winding 
[190] 


E.  V.  LUCAS  FOOLS  CHICAGO 

stretch  of  Michigan  Avenue,  now  a  far-flung 
scarf  of  cool,  purple  night,  embroidered  with  its 
stately  march  of  tall-stemmed,  yellow-gleaming 
lamps.  Ahead  to  the  left,  a  symmetrical  fa£ade 
of  twinkling  windows,  the  Blackstone;  and  at 
the  right  a  deep  sense  of  the  city's  mighty  foil, 
the  Lake. 

We  paused  at  the  hotel  while  I  signed  up. 
Then  on  we  sped,  for  the  lady  was  to  be  taken 
to  where  she  was  to  stop  with  friends  far  out. 
As  we  went  I  said:  "This,  indeed,  is  very  beau 
tiful."  And  so,  too,  by  day.  There  is  a  sense 
of  flowing  rhythm  about  that  avenue.  It  breathes 
distinction  and  charm.  And  it  does  not  look  like 
a  street  anywhere  else.  It  has  the  feel  of  Chi 
cago. 

******* 

I  went  round  seeing  my  friends.  One  of  the 
peculiarities  of  Chicago  is  the  taste  that  city  dis 
plays  for  youth,  slenderness  and  elegance  in  its 
literary  editors.  There  is  my  friend,  young  and 
slender  and  elegant  Henry  Blackman  Sell,  who 
for  long  ran  the  book  page  of  the  Daily  News, 
succeeded  by  young  and  slender  and  elegant 
Harry  Hanson.  And  there  is  my  friend, 
equally  young  and  slender  and  elegant,  Burton 

[191] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

Rascoe,  literary  editor  (until  quite  recently) 
of  the  Tribune.  And  there  (but,  my  good 
ness!  I  should  in  politeness  have  mentioned 
her  first)  is  my  friend,  the  even  younger,  slen 
derer  and  more  elegant  Fanny  Butcher,  who 
conducts  the  "tabloid  book  reviews"  feature  of 
the  Tribune,  and  also  is  the  proprietor  of  the 
dainty  shop,  "Fanny  Butcher:  Books."  Llewel 
lyn  Jones,  literary  editor  of  the  Evening  Post, 
it  is  true,  looks  as  though  he  might  be  thirty. 
But  that  doesn't  alter  the  general  situation. 

I  was  glad  when  Burton  said  that  Keith  Pres 
ton  would  be  at  luncheon,  as  I  had  never  met  him. 
Now  I  am  not  unfamiliar  with  the  society  of 
humorists — but  I  am  not  going  to  say  what  you 
think  I  am.  I  am  not  going  to  say  that  I  have 
not  found  the  conversation  of  humorists  any 
funnier  than  that  of  any  other  men.  Not  at  all. 
The  forty  or  fifty  professional  humorists  of  my 
acquaintance  are  easily  the  most  humorous  men 
I  know. 

He  appeared  at  the  moment  fappointed — a 
thing,  I  have  found,  which  some  humorists  don't 
always  do.  A  smallish,  youngish  chap,  in  large 
spectacles;  very  modest,  very  "retiring"  in  ef 
fect;  friendly  enough  in  manner,  in  a  quiet  way; 
[192] 


E.  V.  LUCAS  FOOLS  CHICAGO 

and  so  "soft-spoken"  it  was  difficult  to  hear  him 
even  across  a  small  table.  Eccentric,  as  you 
might  say,  as  a  humorist ;  in  that  he  says  nothing 
in  the  slightest  humorous.  Commented  upon 
this  later  to  a  friend  of  his,  and  she  replied:  "He 
never  does."  And  so,  you  see,  I  (supported 
more  or  less  by  Burton)  had  to  supply  all  the 

humor  of  the  luncheon. 

******* 

It  was  a  gray  and  rather  turbulent  day  as  we 
sped  along  by  the  lake.  A  racing  wind  dashed 
our  faces  with  spray,  and  the  white-caps  from 
far  out  leaped  and  ran  over  the  choppy  surface 
toward  the  shore.  She  quite  agreed  with  me. 
It  always  bothers  me  to  be  told:  "Too  bad  it 
isn't  a  nice  day.  I  did  so  hope  it  would  be.  Yes 
terday  was  such  a  glorious  day!"  There  is  not 
only  one  kind  of  a  day  which  is  fine.  Beauty 
does  not  depart  from  the  earth  when  the  blaze 
of  the  sun  is  softened  by  a  veil.  What  poetry, 
as  the  Dutchmen  well  knew,  is  in  a  day  hung 
close  to  a  sky  of  reverie,  in  a  haze  of  mauve! 
There  is  grandeur,  too,  an  organ-like  tune  for 
the  spirit,  in  an  angry  day.  Indeed,  I  like  days 

of  every  kind. 

*        *        *        *        #        *        * 

[193] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

'Well,  of  course,"  I  said,  "we  have  the  Hud 


son." 


"Ah!  I  .know,"  she  replied,  "but  you  don't  live 

with  that  the  way  we  do  with  the  lake." 

******* 

They  were  putting  on  a  "Boost  Chicago"  cam 
paign.  Great  streamers  flung  across  the  streets 
read:  "The  City  of  Opportunity,"  and  "Throw 

Away  Your  Hammer — Go  Get  a  Horn!" 
******* 

He  lives  (with  his  wife  and  several  children) 
somewhere  a  monstrous  way,  I  gathered,  from 
the  office  of  the  Daily  News,,  where  he  writes 
editorials.  Carl  Sandburg,  I  mean.  But  by 
putting  up  for  the  night  at  a  friend's  house  he 
was  able  to  attend  the  little  party  in  Hyde  Park, 
He  went  out  with  me  on  the  train  to  Fifty-sec 
ond  Street.  About  as  tall  as  I  am  (that's  rather 
tall),  sturdily  built,  somewhere  in  the  early  for 
ties,  hair  considerably  more  than  touched  with 
iron  gray,  face  decidedly  weather-beaten  in  ef 
fect,  furrowed  and  lined.  General  impression, 
a  man  who  has  done  a  good  deal  of  hard  work 
— one  who  has  lived  far  from  softly.  Movement, 
deliberate.  Manner,  a  blend  of  deep  seriousness 
and  of  kindness  toward  all.  Not  talkative. 
[194] 


E.  V.  LUCAS  FOOLS  CHICAGO 

Makes  no  jests,  and  does  not  respond  with  any 
thing  like  hilarity  to  your  jokes. 

I  heard  a  delightful  lady  speak  of  him  in  a 
most  motherly  and  affectionate  tone  of  voice  as 
looking  "like  an  amiable  second-story  man." 

We  were  obliged  to  stand  in  the  train,  and 
there  was  little  opportunity  for  conversation. 
Walking  away  from  the  suburban  station  I  dis 
covered  by  some  chance  that  he  is  very  fond  of 
Belloc. 

He  made  a  valiant  effort  to  carve  the  meat 
(the  honor  of  which  function  I  wisely  declined), 
but  could  not  grasp  the  principle  of  how  he 
should  go  as  to  grain,  and  finally  gave  it  up. 

After  being  much  urged,  he  took  from  his 
pocket  a  few  manuscript  poems  (rather  soiled 
and  worn  in  look)  and  read  them,  without  any 
effort  at  stage  play.  I  asked  him  for  these  poems 
to  be  considered  for  THE  BOOKMAN.  He  agreed; 
but  I  forgot  to  take  them  when  we  parted,  and 
he  did  not  remind  me  of  the  matter. 

Excellent,  remarkably  so,  book  stores  of  every 

character  in  Chicago. 

******* 

[195] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

Undoubtedly  the  worst  place  to  eat  in,  that 

city,  anywhere'  in  the  world. 

*        +        *         +        *+'• 

Mr.  Doran's  telegram  read:  "E.  V.  Lucas  at 
the  Blackstone;  introduce  yourself."  At  the 
hotel  desk  I  was  handed  a  card:  the  gentleman's 
name,  and,  as  is  the  fashion  with  Englishmen, 
neatly  engraved  in  the  lower  left-hand  corner 
the  name  of  his  club,  the  Athenaeum;  written 
in  pencil,  "I'll  be  in  till  half  past  seven."  I  got 
him  on  his  room  telephone.  "At  the  stand  where 
the  newspapers  are.  I'll  be  there,"  he  said.  We 
went  down  through  all  those  labyrinthian  little 
lobbies  to  the  grill  for  dinner. 

You  are,  doubtless,  familiar  with  portraits  of 
him.  Had  I  not  known  his  picture  so  well  I 
certainly  should  not  have  taken  this  to  be  E.  V. 
Lucas,  or,  indeed,  a  man  who  had  anything  at 
all  to  do  with  literature.  A  youngish  fifty,  per 
haps.  Rather  tall.  A  good  weight,  not  over 
heavy.  Light  on  his  feet,  like  a  man  who  has 
taken  his  share  in  active  field  games.  Some 
thing  of  a  stoop.  A  smile,  good,  natural,  but 
sly.  Dark  hair,  shot  with  gray.  Noble  prow  of 
a  nose.  Most  striking  note  of  all,  that  ruddy 
complexion,  ruddy  to  a  degree  which  (as  I  re- 
[106] 


E.  V.  LUCAS  FOOLS  CHICAGO 

fleet  upon  the  matter)  seems  to  be  peculiar  to  a 
certain  type  of  Englishman. 

He  studied  the  card  with  deep  attention.  Evi 
dently  not  a  man  (as  I  am)  who  eats  carelessly, 
regarding  one  thing  (if  good  of  its  kind)  as 
about  as  good  as  another.  Ordered  an  excellent 
meal.  Very  particular  as  to  the  manner  in  which 
dishes  were  served.  Much  annoyed  that  the 
waiter  did  not  instantly  replace  the  silver  cover 
upon  the  dish  from  which  he  had  just  served  the 
roast  beef.  Spoke  to  him  sharply  because  he 
was  withdrawing  from  the  table  when  something 
else  remained  to  be  done.  Amazed  at  the  indif 
ference  of  the  man,  who  (I  suppose  Mr.  Lucas 
did  not  know)  was  going  to  strike  on  the  day 
after  the  morrow,  and  probably  held  all  diners 
in  scorn.  Topped  off  with  a  very  handsome 
strawberry  shortcake. 

He  had  been  in  Chicago  several  days  and  had 
not  made  himself  known  to  any  one,  except  at 
Marshall  Field's  book  store,  which  he  spoke  of 
as  the  finest  book  store  within  his  knowledge. 
Had  come  from  the  Orient  by  the  way  of  San 
Francisco.  California?  "Most  beautiful  place 
I  ever  saw."  Curious  to  hear  all  that  might  be 
said  concerning  recent  literary  visitors  from 

[197] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

England.  Appeared  to  be  much  amused  at  the 
number  of  them.  Was  interested  to  learn  the 
standing  over  here  of  English  writers  who  had 
taken  up  residence  in  the  United  States  years 
ago — to  name  one,  Richard  Le  Gallienne.  In 
quired  if  they  had  become  naturalized  American 
citizens.  Was  considerably  put  out  because  he 
had  not  been  able  to  buy  any  of  the  books  of 
Edith  Wharton  since  his  arrival  in  this,  her  own, 
country.  (I  offered  the  paper  shortage  and 
other  difficulties  present  in  American  publishing 
as  my  country's  apology.) 

He  said:  "I  think  she  is  about  the  best  there 
is  in  England  or  America." 

He  continued  to  look  at  me  rather  severely  in 
the  matter  of  our  failure  to  appreciate  Mrs. 
Wharton.  Indeed,  his  manner  ( I  reflected  with 
some  amusement)  might  imply  that  he  held  me 
personally  responsible  for  everything  over  here 
of  which  he  did  not  approve.  We  spoke  of  a 
recent  visitor  here  for  whose  work  neither  of  us 
cared.  "You  bought  his  books,"  said  Mr.  Lucas. 
Not  I!  "You  have  pretty  well  ruined  things 
over  here  with  your  prohibition."  He  used  to 
look  forward  to  a  meal;  but  now  .  .  .  !  I  has 
tened  to  assure  him  that  in  the  matter  of  the 
[198] 


E.  V.  LUCAS  FOOLS  CHICAGO 

Eighteenth  Amendment  I  was  quite  (Oh!  quite) 
guiltless.  And  "you  are  easily  pleased  with  your 
comic  supplements."  In  broad  American  hu 
mor,  I  was  charmed  to  hear,  he  liked  very  much 
Walt  Mason,  and  Mutt  and  Jeff.  Don  Mar 
quis  he  thought  (rightly  enough)  our  best  col 
umnist. 

He  made  a  couple  of  horribly  bad  puns.  I 
can't  for  the  life  of  me  recollect  them. 

He  liked  my  Tarkington  story  about  "Ham 
let."  "There's  a  good  deal  in  the  Belasco  idea, 
too,"  he  said.  "I  like  to  think  of  Shakespeare  as 
a  practical  man."  As  to  the  many  merits  of 
slang,  he  denied  them.  On  the  ground  that  it 
was  a  jargon  of  stock  phrases.  "In  speaking, 
as  in  writing,"  he  reasoned,  "what  one  should 
seek  is  an  individual,  a  fresh  rearrangement  of 
words."  Now  there  is  a  good  deal  to  be  said, 
both  thus  and  so,  as  to  this  matter;  but  (and  I 
couldn't  think  of  less  space  for  the  subject)  I 
cannot  take  up  a  chapter  here  for  the  sub 
ject. 

When  he  had  finished  a  cigar  or  two  he  took 
from  his  pocket  a  very  worn-looking,  cloth-cov 
ered  cigarette  case  and  dumped  from  it  a  ciga 
rette  onto  the  palm  of  one  hand. 

[199] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

He  commented  on  the  cost  of  living  in  Chicago. 
"Just  think  of  that,  nearly  three  pounds  a 
night  for  a  bed-room!"  The  other  evening  he 
had  gone  "out"  for  his  dinner,  to  a  place  he  had 
observed  earlier  in  the  day,  and  which,  from  the 
look  of  it,  in  England  would  have  been  very 
^reasonable."  "And  everything  was  about  one- 
third  more  than  here."  Asked  how  he  would  find 
the  situation  in  New  York. 

Discussed  publishing.  "Not  much  risk"  about 
a  book,  he  said,  "when  everything  gets  published 
and  when  people  buy  anything."  He,  as  well 
as  I,  it  seems,  had  written  what  the  trade  terms 
"jacket  copy,"  that  is  the  advertising  matter 
describing  a  book  which  goes  on  its  paper  wrap 
per.  "You  have  here  such  a  number  of  words 
which  make  it  easy,  words  which  mean  so  much, 
and  mean  nothing  at  all,  like  cave-man  and 
mother  love." 

We  made  an  appointment  to  meet  at  break 
fast.  He  was  leaving  for  the  East  shortly  before 

noon  the  following  day. 

******* 

I  was,  he  told  me,  to  be  one  of  the  party.    Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Hahner  were  coming  for  him  in  their 
[200] 


E.  V.  LUCAS  FOOLS  CHICAGO 

car  and  take  him  for  a  drive  until  time  for  his 
train.  He  would,  of  course,  call  her  Mrs. 
Hahner  (which  has  recently  become  her  name), 
but  she  is  known  to  all  the  rest  of  the  world  by 
her  maiden  name  of  Marcella  Burns,  presiding 
genius  of  the  Marshall  Field  book  store. 

In  that  Louis  Seize  lobby  he  crammed  a  charge 
of  tobacco  into  a  very  old-looking  pipe,  and  re 
marked  that  he  was  sorry  he  had  not  "met"  us 
before,  as  he  had  wished  he  "could  find  some 
body  to  go  to  the  music  halls  with."  "Us"  (or 
we)  being,  presumably,  the  Hahners  and  me — 
the  extent,  as  you  might  say,  of  his  "circle"  in 
Chicago.  And  the  only  "music  hall"  there  with 
which  I  myself  am  acquainted  is  the  Marigold 
Gardens,  where  I  went  with  a  remarkably  inter 
esting  lady,  about  whom  (when  this  History  is 
finished)  I  expect  to  write  a  novel.  It  will  prob 
ably  be  called  "The  Yellow  Slippers." 

This  was  the  first  time  I  had  seen  him  got  up 
for  out-of-doors.  He  wore  a  soiled  sport  hat, 
very  light  in  color,  the  material  of  which  I  can 
best  describe  as  resembling  cat  fur;  a  stringy 
muffler,  also  light  in  color;  a  wrinkled  rain-coat, 
and  beneath  this  a  detachable  woolen  lining  or 
under  coat.  Unlike  most  Englishmen,  he  did 

[201] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

not  (at  any  time  I  saw  him)  carry  a  stick.  He 
told  me  that  he  "always  froze  to  death"  on  motor 
car  drives. 

There  was  a  light  rain  when  we  started;  the 
top  was  up,  and  he  was  assigned  to  the  front  seat 
with  George  Hahner,  to  give  him  the  better  view. 
Here  he  appeared  to  enjoy  himself  hugely  in  a 
very  animated  discussion  of  baseball  throughout 
the  trip.  Though  he  contended  that  cricket  was 
the  better  sport,  there  is  no  doubt  he  was  consid 
erably  "hipped"  by  our  game.  Had  been  going 
by  himself  since  he  got  to  the  States.  Went  to 
a  Sunday  game  in  San  Francisco. 

Back  by  the  hotel  to  take  on  his  luggage.  He 
had  been  saying  apologetically  that  there  was  "a 
good  deal  of  it."  But  Mrs.  Hahner,  whose  forte 
is  to  make  everybody  happy,  had  as  repeatedly 
declared  there  was  plenty  of  room  for  it  all.  Men 
began  bringing  it  out,  and  what  they  brought  was 
stowed  away  in  the  car.  A  lull  then  in  the  pro 
ceedings,  and  everybody  (not  owning  the  prop 
erty)  stout-heartedly  affirmed  that  that  was  'no 
amount  of  luggage  at  all.  With  that  sly  Lucas 
smile:  "Oh!  there's  more  to  come." 

It  was  one  of  those  outwardly  dingy-looking 
stations  in  the  interior  of  Chicago.  We  drove 
[202] 


E.  V.  LUCAS  FOOLS  CHICAGO 

up  at  the  side,  and  as  an  attendant  loaded  Mr. 
Lucas's  traveling  equipment  onto  a  little  hand- 
truck,  I  made  this  inventory  of  the  outfit: 

SEVEN  THINGS 

1.  Steamer  trunk. 

2.  Cardboard  hat  box. 

3.  Suitcase. 

4.  Army  roll. 

5.  Laundry  bag,  half  filled. 

6.  Umbrella. 

7.  Bag  containing  some  sort  of  clubs,  too 
short  for  golf  sticks;  probably  cricket  bats. 

Indeed,  he  had  eight  things ;  he  carried  in  his 
hand  a  parcel  (in  shape  suggesting  books)  done 
up  in  a  piece  of  newspaper. 

"All  a-board !"  We  stood  with  him  in  a  group 
by  the  steps  of  his  coach.  The  little  truck  had 
not  arrived.  What  was  to  be  done!  Then  the 
station  attendant  was  seen  propelling  his  vehicle 
down  the  platform  at  a  rattling  clip.  Mr.  Lucas 
rapidly  shook  hands  round  the  circle,  turned  and 
sprang  up  the  steps — an  odd,  a  humorous  and  a 
memorable  figure:  stoop,  smile,  whitish  hat,  and 
long  coat  flowing  out  after  him.  A  bevy  of  por 
ters  hustled  his  collection  of  things  aboard.  The 

[203] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

train  began  to  move;  and  only  four  people  in 
Chicago  knew  that  this  particular  and  very  dis 
tinguished  English  man  of  letters  had  ever  been 
there. 


What  she  said  to  me  was  these  words:  "Mur 
ray,  you  are  furmy  if  you  are  silly."  I  do  not 
know  what  she  meant.  I  was  revolving  in  my 
mind  the  question:  Who  painted  her?  Rossetti 
could  not  have  done  it,  because  he  was  a  rotten 
bad  painter.  And  yet  she  has  what  I  suppose  you 
might  call  a  Rossetti  mouth.  I  said  to  her:  "I 
must  go.  I'll  be  back."  She  said  to  me:  "When 
will  you  be  back?  Yesterday  you  said  you  would 
be  back,  and  you  did  not  come."  I  said  to  her: 
"And  on  Sunday,  Katherine,  you  were  to  take 
me  to  the  dunes  —  and  you  merely  took  'Walk 
ing-Stick  Papers.'  "  She  said  to  me:  "I'll  have 
everything  straightened  up  when  you  come."  I 
said  to  her:  "Within  an  hour."  Rich  lashes  cov 
ered  her  eyes,  as  she  looked  toward  the  floor.  I 
took  up  my  hat  and  stick.  Her  bosom  was  gently 
rising  and  falling.  I  made  a  step  toward  the 
door.  She  looked  up.  A  diamond  gleamed  in 
each  of  her  eyes. 
[204] 


E.  V.  LUCAS  FOOLS  CHICAGO 

"Whyinhell  don'tcher  watch  out  where  yore 
goin'!"  yelled  State  Street  taxi  driver. 

"Brother,"  I  said  to  him,  "pardon  me.  I  was 
thinking:  Who  painted  her?  Do  you  suppose  it 
would  have  been  Renoir?" 

"Poor  fish!"  said  taxi  man.    Even  so. 

******* 

"Well,"  I  said  to  Fanny  Butcher,  "the  artist 
makes  copy  out  of  passion." 

"I  know  an  artist,"  said  Fanny  Butcher,  "who 
makes  passion  out  of  copy." 

A  bright  child,  is  Fanny  Butcher. 


[205] 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MATERNITY  AND  CLIMATE 

1  REMEMBER  Mr.  Lucas  had  said  to  me: 
"What!  Can  you  write  in  a  hotel  room?"  I 
see  no  reason  why  one  should  not  be  able  to  write 
in  any  kind  of  a  room.  So  voluminous  were  the 
pages  of  copy  on  my  table  at  one  of  the  hotels 
where  I  had  been  that  I  thought  it  but  polite  to 
explain  to  the  maid  what  I  was  up  to.  She  was 
a  very  fat  negress  who  bore  the  blooming  name 
of  Rose.  "I'm  writing  a  book,"  I  said. 

"Must  be  hard  work,"  she  replied;  "it  would 
be  for  me."  Then  she  very  graciously  added: 
"I  bet  that's  a  good  book  to  read." 

No,  Mr.  Lucas  had  said,  he  could  not  write 
in  hotel  rooms ;  but  he  had  no  difficulty  in  writing 
on  trains.  I  had  looked  forward  to  getting  con 
siderable  writing  done  during  my  three  days 
and  a  half  on  the  Overland  Limited.  Found  I 
couldn't  write  at  all.  I  must  examine  into  the 

psychology  of  this  matter  when  I  have  the  time. 

******* 

[206] 


MATERNITY  AND  CLIMATE 

I  can't  shave  on  trains,  either.  The  reason 
for  this  is  that  I  use  the  old-fashioned,  muzzle- 
loader  type  of  razor;  and  I  can't  sway  with  the 
roll  of  the  craft.  .  .  .  Each  morning  I  climbed 
into  the  barber's  chair  up  ahead.  The  train  would 
be  sailing  smoothly  along.  The  barber  would 
elaborately  lather  me.  The  train  would  begin 
to  slow  up.  He  would  start  with  my  cheek. 
Train  stopped.  He  had  got  around  to  my  throat. 
Bang!  Coupling  cars.  Deftly  he  had  jerked 
away  his  razor-hand.  Makes  another  attempt. 
Again,  bang!  ...  a  shock  that  nearly  smashes 
the  train. 

He  worked  over  me,  day  after  day,  both  as  a 
barber  and  as  a  missionary.  He  would  have  me 
a  convert  in  California,  even  before  I  got  there. 
And  so  I  was  "from  New  York?"  Well,  he 
knew  a  man  who  had  six  children — five  of  them 
born  in  California,  "without  any  trouble."  The 
sixth  was  born  in  New  York;  and  the  birth  of 
this  child  nearly  cost  the  life  of  the  gentleman's 
wife.  Indeed,  he  only  "saved  her  by  the  skin  of 
his  teeth."  Shows  the  effect  of  climate. 

"The  scientific  part  of  it,"  concluded  the  bar 
ber,  "I  don't  know.  But,"  he  added,  "he  thought 
too  much  of  her  to  lose  her  for  that." 

[207] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

I  was  repeatedly  and  positively  assured  that 
residence  in  California  would  "add  ten  years"  to 

my  life. 

*•        +        **** 

I  came  across  him  in  the  vestibule.  He  was 
waiting  for  a  seat  at  dinner.  Little,  old  fellow; 
flannel  shirt,  wizened,  stooped,  iron  spectacles: 
so  unprosperous  in  appearance  I  was  rather  sur 
prised  that  he  should  be  going  in  to  dinner  at  all 
.  .  .  you  might  have  expected  him  to  eat  his  din 
ner  from  a  cardboard  box.  He  was  very  much 
provoked  because  he  had  not  received  the  atten 
tion  and  courtesy  which  he  thought  was  his  due 
from  the  manager  of  the  dining-car,  and  (thus 
we  became  acquainted)  began  to  grumble  to  me 
concerning  this. 

We  were  seated  at  the  same  table.  He  in 
quired  (he  had  a  worn  looking  volume  in  his 
hand)  if  I  was  "much  of  a  reader."  I  told  him 
that  I  should  not  say  that  I  was  "much  of  a 
reader,"  but  that  I  read  a  little  now  and  then  to 
pass  the  time  away.  He  handed  me  his  book.  It 
was :  "Robbery  Under  Arms :  a  Story  of  Life  and 
Adventure  in  the  Bush  and  in  the  Goldfields  of 
California,"  by  Rolf  Boldrewood,  imprinted 
1889.  He  declared  it  was  one  of  the  best  "dime 
[208] 


MATERNITY  AND  CLIMATE 

novels"  ever  written.  Our  discussion  became  liter 
ary.  Another  of  his  favorite  volumes  (he  informed 
me)  was  "Moby  Dick."  He  had  greatly  enjoyed 
"The  Education  of  Henry  Adams."  Suddenly 
he  asked:  "Are  you  a  New  Englander?  Well," 
was  his  comment,  "you  couldn't,  then,  savor  the 
flavor  of  the  humor  of  the  book."  It  developed 
that,  in  his  way,  he  was  a  collector.  He  had  "a 
fairly  complete  library"  in  two  subjects:  gypsies 
and  sleight-of-hand. 

He  asked  if  I  had  been  much  in  the  Pa 
cific  Islands.  His  home  was  in  Boston;  and  be 
was  on  his  way  to  Hawaii,  having  business  in 
terests  in  Honolulu.  He  told  me  a  good  deal 
about  the  volcano  there;  but  remarked  that  no 
amount  of  description  could  give  one  any  idea 
of  it.  Chiefly,  however,  he  discussed  the  "deli 
cate"  dishes  of  the  islands,  "delicious"  foods. 
He  looked  like  an  exceedingly  weather-beaten 
gargoyle. 

I  remember  some  time  ago  hearing  several  old 
gentlemen  in  a  club  in  New  York  discuss  a  re 
cent  violent  thunderstorm.  Said  one:  "I  dont 
mind  a  thunderstorm  in  the  day  time.  Indeed,  I 

[209] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

rather  like  to  hear  one  come  up.  But  I  have  an 
objection  to  being  struck  by  lightning  in  the 
middle  of  the  night — I  don't  want  to  meet  my 
Maker  with  my  things  all  about  my  head."  Pre 
cisely  !  I  have  very  much  the  same  feeling  every 
time  I  go  to  bed  on  a  train.  I  see  a  mental  pic 
ture  of  myself  being  dug  out  from  under  an 
awful  wreck  and  most  ridiculously  attired  for  a 
scene  of  tragedy. 

Another  thing.  I  was  surprised  every  morn 
ing  that  we  had  not  been  held  up  by  bandits  dur 
ing  the  night.  I  altogether  fail  to  understand 
why  trains  are  not  held  up  every  day  while  cross 
ing  those  plains  and  mountains,  where  not  a  mov 
ing  thing  is  to  be  seen  for  half  a  day  at  a  time. 
I  hesitate  to  encourage  banditry  by  so  highly 
recommending  one  form  of  robbery  beyond  an 
other.  But  it  certainly  does  seem  to  me  that 
any  company  issuing  insurance  to  highwaymen 
(if  such  companies  there  be)  would  much  prefer 
to  take  a  chance  on  a  couple  of  gentlemen  about 
to  roll  a  log  across  the  track  in  the  Sierra  Nevada 
mountains,  with  a  perfectly  free  getaway  on  all 
sides,  than  on  any  one  of  the  numerous  automo 
bile  parties  of  adventurous  spirits  who  undertake 
[210] 


MATERNITY  AND  CLIMATE 

to  make  a  cigar  store  on  Broadway  "stand  and 

deliver." 

******* 

I  observed  one  thing  in  the  landscape  during 
that  several  thousand  miles  of  travel  worthy  of 
remark.  We  climbed  and  climbed  and  climbed, 
until  the  man  who  sells  souvenir  booklets  descrip 
tive  of  the  "wonders"  along  the  route  informed 
us  that  we  were  at  a  place  called  "the  top  of  the 
world."  I  don't  know  the  "elevation";  you  may 
find  that  "given"  in  his  books.  But,  at  any  rate, 
the  habitable  world,  as  it  dropped  sheer  from  the 
side  of  the  track,  looked  very  far  away,  and  we 
were  in  a  region  of  snow.  A  wild  and  desolate 
place.  And  there,  a  few  feet  from  the  rails,  we 
passed  a  tiny  cabin  embowered  with  roses. 

Shortly  after  this,  after  those  mammoth 
stretches  of  rocky  wildness,  those  days  of  rolling 
plain,  from  that  black  ridge  we  began  the  mighty 
descent,  and  soon  were  rolling  through  that  won 
drous  garden-land  of  California. 

******* 

She  was,  it  was  rumored  in  the  train,  a  motion 
picture  actress.  Anyhow,  she  was  what  I  have 

[211] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

heard  called  a  "looker."  And  her  profession 
may  well  have  been  (as  her  instinct  certainly  was 
for  this)  the  art  of  personal  fascination.  She 
had  an  upper  berth,  and  did  not  arise  before 
eleven. 

There  was  in  the  same  car  a  young  English 
man  of,  to  put  it  so,  no  very  great  power  of  re 
sistance — a  very  good-looking,  and  a  very 
young,  young  Englishman.  He  enjoyed  her  so 
ciety  continually ;  and  a  constant  attendance  upon 
her  involved  the  necessity  of  his,  so  to  say, 
"boarding"  her — he  bought  every  meal  she  ate 
between  Chicago  and  San  Francisco.  A  few 
hours  before  San  Francisco  was  reached  got  on 
the  train  a  young  commercial  traveler;  such 
he  was  in  effect,  and  such  his  subsequent  con 
versation  proclaimed  him  to  be.  By  maneuvers 
too  dexterous  for  the  eye  (of  the  disinterested 
observer)  to  perceive  he  (almost  immediately) 
detached  the  young  woman  from  her  consort  of 
several  days,  and  made  her  the  audience  of  his 
own  racy  eloquence.  The  frustrated  English 
man  took  solace  in  solitary  dudgeon.  He  re 
marked,  to  the  world  in  general:  "Life  over  here 

is  like  an  English  country  town." 

**,***'*•• 

[212] 


MATERNITY  AND  CLIMATE 

My  new  acquaintance  (I  met  him  in  the  club 
car  reading  a  volume  of  O.  Henry)  said  that  he 
was  exceedingly  sorry  we  had  not  met  earlier  in 
the  journey.  He  repeated  this  regret  several 
times.  He  had  had  a  very  dull  trip.  The  reason 
for  this,  he  explained,  was  that  he,  like  myself, 
did  not  really  "make  up  with  everybody."  He 
kept  himself  a  good  deal  to  himself;  and  that, 
he  acknowledged  to  me,  was  the  kind  of  a  man 
he  liked  to  know.  He  gave  me  his  card.  He 
would  not  have  given  his  card  to  just  anybody. 

In  one  of  those  extremely  handsome  ferries 
that  they  have  here  we  went  across  the  Bay  to 
gether — that  noble  bay,  sea-gulls  wheeling  (with 
their  wild  cries)  above  us  as  we  went. 


[218] 


CHAPTER  XV 

TO  SAN  FRANCISCO:  A  NEW  WALKING-STICK  PAPER 

' j  iH E  literary  editor  of  this  newspaper  (San 
JL  Francisco  Chronicle)  has  got  a  woman  to 
do  an  evil  thing.  I  highly  approve  of  his  con- 
duct  in  this.  The  scandalous  affair  is  as  follows: 
Perceiving  by  instinctive  intelligence  that  he 
himself  dared  not  enter  into  my  presence  with 
his  corrupt  proposal  (I  am  a  very  savage  man 
and  have  destroyed  more  than  one  wicked  liter' 
ary  editor  merely  by  a  glance)  he  played  upon 
that  weakness  of  mine,  which  though  I  endeavor 
to  conceal  it,  I  fear  is  notorious.  He  knew 
(whether  through  knowledge  of  my  reputation 
at  home,  or  whether  by  low  cwnning,  I  cannot 
say)  that,  though  I  am  a  roarer  among  men,  I 
am  as  a  toy  in  the  hands  of  feminine  beauty, 
a  slave  before  the  eyes  of  a  lovely  lady. 

So  what  does  he  do,  this  fellow?    He  discov 
ers  (by  some  gum-shoe  method)  that  there  is  in 
this  city  a  lady  who  not  long  ago  lived  next  door 
[214] 


TO  SAN  FRANCISCO 

to  me  in  New  York  and  (deeply  I  felt  it)  fitted 
all  that  neighborhood  with  charm.  He  has  her 
ring  me  up  at  my  hotel.  He  has  her  instill  into 
my  mind  an  idea.  The  idea  that  (busy  as  I  am 
with  my  vacation  here)  I  write  something  for 
this  paper.  I  am  glad  that  evidently  the  thought 
did  not  occur  to  him  to  have  her  beguile  me  to  do 
this:  give  up  the  six  weeks  of  my  vacation  still 
coming  to  me  and  go  do  his  work  on  the  paper 
while  he  finished  out  my  vacation  himself. 

"Certainly''  I  said;  "certainly,  delighted,  with 
pleasure,  nothing  could  make  me  happier!"  I 
said;  and  I  leaned  limp  against  the  wall.  I  won 
der,  I  thought,  what  I  have  let  myself  in  for  now? 
You  have  no  idea,  my  dears,  what  ladies  have  let 
me  in  for  before  this.  One  time,  I  remember — 
but  that  would  take  too  long  to  tell;  and  also, 
doubtless,  it  would  be  unwise  for  me  to  go  into 
the  matter.  Anyhow,  I  got  out  of  it  all  right. 
But  the  experience  has  taught  me  nothing.  Very 
likely  I'd  do  the  same  thing  over  again.  And,  in 
deed,  I'm  glad  of  that. 

But  where  was  I?  Oh,  yes!  "What,"  I  asked, 
"shall  I  write  about?33  I  felt  decidedly  gloomy; 
I  fancied  I'd  be  required  to  tell  all  about  litera 
ture.  I've  told  all  about  literature  any  number 

[215] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

of  limes.  And  it  seems  to  me  the  matter  ought 
to  be  let  go  at  that.  What  else,  please  tell  me, 
is  there  to  be  said? 

"Why,  write  about  yourself''  rippled  the  voice 
over  the  wire.  I  cheered  up  immensely.  Now,  a 
lot  of  people  hem  and  haw  when  they  are  asked 
to  talk  about  themselves.  They  think  they  should 
pull  all  the  proper  modesty  stuff  before  they 
begin.  You  never  catch  me  at  that  sort  of  bunk 
um.  When  anybody  encourages  me  to  talk  about 
myself,  she  (just  sort  of  slipped  of  my  pen,  the 
word  "she")  has  got  nothing  else  to  do  the  rest 
of  the  afternoon  but  just  sit  back  and  listen. 

Well,  I  was  rather  cleverly  introduced  to  an 
audience  in  Cincinnati  a  few  weeks  ago  as  a  per 
son  "born  in  Indiana  but  who  had  never  been 
west  of  the  Hudson  river."  And,  in  a  manner  of 
speaking,  this,  until  recently,  was  so  enough. 
Though  the  house  where  I  was  born  is  "still 
standing"  in  Indianapolis,  I  went  to  New  York 
(to  become  a  painter)  at  about  the  age  of  nine 
teen,  and  have  lived  there  mainly  during  the  ten 
or  twelve  years  since — though  some  ill-natured 
people  say  that  I  look  almost  thirty-five.  (It  is 
astonishing  what  malice  some  people  have!) 

Now,  however,  man  and  boy  I  have  lived  in 
[216] 


TO  SAN  FRANCISCO 

San  Francisco  since  7:30  o'clock  in  the  evening 
of  May  9, 1920.  And,  slowly  but  surely,  I  have 
become  (wtfiat  you  call  'em?)  a  San  Franciscoac. 
I  certainly  have. 

You  see,  I've  got  a  dog  at  home,  very  valuable 
young  man,  by  name  Tristram  Shandy,  Gentle 
man.  And  he  is  being  boarded  out  only  tern^ 
porarily.  I'll  have  to  return  and  get  him,  and 
then  I'll  be  back. 

My  love!  brightest  and  most  alluring  of  mcdd- 
ens  among  all  the  world's  cities;  San  Francisco, 
enchantress  and  darling!  it  will  be  but  as  a  mo- 
ment  tliat  I  am  torn  from  your  gleaming  arms! 
Your  fragrance  will  caress  me  the  time  I  am 
away. 

Golden  lady!  take  me,  and  by  yoivr  great 
beauty  will  I  became  a  writer  that  can  really 
write. 

Dear,  wait  for  me  here! 

******* 

When  I  left  the  Chronicle  office  I  went  over 
to  the  Bulletin.  But  first  I  should  tell  you  how 
I  got  to  the  Chronicle.  Among  the  pleasantest 
things  in  the  world  to  the  senses  are  the  public 
squares,  garnished  with  greenery,  of  a  first-rate 
city.  More  delightful  by  far  (to  me)  than  that 

[217] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

city's  imposing  parks.  Well,  when  I  would  come 
out  of  my  hotel  of  a  morning  Union  Square  was 
there  at  the  door  to  blow  me  a  welcome  to  the 
day.  Semi-tropical  Union  Square  with  its  dress- 
parade  row  of  sturdy  date-palms  hefore  me. 
;(And  as  I  would  go  home  at  night  I'd  see  the 
lights  across  the  little  way  strung  like  lanterns 
through  the  trees.) 

First,  I'd  take  a  turn  about  the  square,  and 
its  neighborhood,  looking  up  those  streets  to  the 
North  and  West  of  it,  those  broad,  shining, 
speckless  San  Francisco  streets.  Streets  de 
scending  their  steep  hills,  in  a  series  of  terraces, 
block  by  block,  and  their  gleaming  car-tracks 
coming  like  a  cascade  down  the  middle.  Then 
I'd  turn,  through  that  sparkling  city  toward 
Market  Street.  At  "newspaper  corners"  I'd 
pause  to  revel  in  the  Piccadilly- Circus-like  banks 
of  color  of  the  flower  venders.  And  I'd  stand 
and  muse  before  one  of  those  amazingly  provin 
cial  news-stands  at  the  curb.  Take,  at  random, 
one  of  these  little  shacks  of  boards  anywhere  up 
or  down  the  street  and  make  a  memorandum. 
You  will  there  (in  all  likelihood)  find  on  display, 
among  other  periodicals,  these  publications: 
[218] 


TO  SAN  FRANCISCO 


The  Nautical  Gazette 
Asia 

The  Poultry  Journal 
Popular  Science 
Soviet  Russia 
The  Bill  Board 
New  York  Clipper 
London  Times 
London  Daily  Mail 
Manchester  Guardian 
Belfast  Weekly  News 
Cork  Examiner 
Ultalia 

British  Calif ornian 
El  Norte  Americano 
The  Fleet  Review 
The  American  Boy 
(Dramatic  Mirror 
Police  Gazette 
American  Echo 


Liberator 

Commodore 

Orchard  and  Farm 

The  National  Labor  Digest 

Daily  Sporting  Times 

Western  Worker 

The  Survey 

London  Daily  Mirror 

John  Bull 

Glasgow  Herald 

Dublin  Freeman 

"Danish  Politikan 

El  Heraldo  de  Mexico 

Philippines  Free  Press 

The  Wireless  Age 

Birth  Control  Review 

Baseball  Magazine 

Mothers 

South  American 

Berliner  Tageblatt 


New  Yorker  Staats  Zeitung Sydney  Bulletin 
Sydney  Morning  Herald      Sydney  Truth 
Sydney  Referee 
Auckland  Weekly  News 
Wellington  Press 
Stockholm's  Dagblod 


Melbourne  Australasian 
Otago  Witness 
Irish  World 
Texas  Oil  Gazette 


New  Zealand  Herald 


He  looked  up  over  his  typewriter  at  me  blank 
ly  as  I  entered  his  little  quarters  partitioned  off 

[219] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

from  the  general  office  of  the  Bulletin.  I  had 
noticed  that  the  legend  on  his  door  read,  "Edi 
torial  Writers,"  and  beneath  that  was  printed, 
"George  Douglas."  I  knew  nothing  of  the  man 
except  that  I  had  been  told  I  should  "see"  him. 

"Well,  I  declare!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  thought 
you  were  a  book  agent,  and  was  going  to  throw 
you  out." 

"So  I  am,"  I  replied.  "I  want  to  sell  you  a 
copy  of  the  celebrated  volume,  now  in  course  of 
preparation,  'Men  and  Books  and  Cities.' ' 

We  fell  to  talking  of  a  number  of  writer 
friends  of  mine  who,  I  here  began  to  discover, 
have  much  popularity  on  the  coast:  Booth  Tark- 
ington,  William  McFee,  Christopher  Morley, 
and  A.  Edward  Newton.  Then,  of  English  au 
thors:  Chesterton,  Belloc,  and  the  lot.  And  so 
Lucas  had  also  pussyfooted  into  (and  out  of) 
San  Francisco — Douglas  was  amazed  to  learn 
that  he  had  recently  been  here. 

Leaped  out,  Douglas,  to  bring  in  the  owner 
of  the  paper — that's  the  way  they  do  in  San 
Francisco — R.  A.  Crothers.  A  fine,  hearty, 
ruddy,  mountain  of  an  elderly  man.  He  re 
marked,  by  way  of  apology  to  the  visitor,  that 
life  in  San  Francisco  was  rather  "flat"  since  "the 
[220] 


TO  SAN  FRANCISCO 

booze  had  gone."  And  I  discovered  that  he  had 
pride  in  the  very  un-newspaper-like  idea  that 
the  Bulletin  printed  the  line  of  goods  stamped 
"literature"  when  it  could  get  it,  John  Cowper 
Powys,  and  others  who  regard  themselves  as  of 
letters  contributing  to  its  columns. 

But  wait!  (the  fellow  had  been  "very  busy" 
when  I  went  in).  A  man  we  must  lay  hold  of 
right  away.  Frisbee.  Got  him  on  the  wire. 

Lunch.    Right  O! 

******* 

Luncheon  party:  G.  G.  Frisbee,  prosperous 
San  Francisco  druggist.  An  excellent  amateur 
of  books.  Happiest  man  I  have  ever  seen.  Got 
up  in  very  becoming  gay  checks.  Mr.  Frisbee's 
young  man  son.  A  lawyer  whose  name  escaped 
me  at  the  introduction.  Mr.  Douglas,  native  of 
Sydney;  places  of  former  residence,  South 
Africa,  London,  Alaska;  a  critic,  polished,  eru 
dite,  keenly  sensitive  to  literature,  eloquent  in 
talk.  Captain  Woodside,  retired,  learned  ship 
building  trade  in  Belfast  with  Harlon  and 
Wolff,  master  in  sail  and  steam.  Lives  in  a 
house  on  a  height,  studio  window  to  his  den  at 
the  top,  where  surrounded  by  his  instruments  he 

[221] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

sits  and  observes  through  his  binoculars  the  Pa 
cific.    Taken  up  reading  as  a  pastime. 

Place:  Sub-surface  eating  place  in  the  busi 
ness  district.  Vast  area.  Used  to  be  called  the 
Bismarck,  changed"  to  its  present  name,  the 
States,  when  "Liberty  cabbage"  was  the  vogue. 
Vaulted  ceiling  done  in  dainty  stenciled  frescoes 
of  the  German  Renaissance,  depicting  artistry 
appropriate  to  the  years  preceding  the  drought. 
Mottoes  and  inscriptions  on  ceiling  and  walls 
soon  to  be  meaningless.  "Prosit!" 

Dishes:   Delightful  sea  foods  strange  to  me. 

Captain  Woodside  had  just  read  Conrad's 
"Nigger  of  the  Narcissus."  "Not  nearly  so 
good,"  he  declared,  "as  Marryat."  Astonish 
ment  round  the  table.  "It's  not  sea-faring,"  as 
serted  the  captain.  General  outcry.  Passionate 
(and  amazingly  detailed)  presentation  by 
Douglas  of  who  Conrad  is. 

Captain  totally  unmoved.  Doggedly  re 
iterates  that  the  book  is  "not  sea-faring."  Ex 
plains:  "Ship  goes  on  her  beam's  end.  Stays  so 
for  a  day  and  a  half.  It  righted.  Proceeds  on 
her  course  as  though  nothing  had  happened.  No 
allowances  made  for  the  shifting  of  her  cargo, 
[222] 


TO  SAN  FRANCISCO 

which  must  have  occurred  with  her  a  day  and  a 
half  on  her  beam's  end.  Any  sailor  man  knows 
that."  He  concluded:  "A  picture  ship." 

MR.  HILL:  "Yes;  but  literature  is  full  of  in 
stances  where  a  writer  who  certainly  should  have 
known  what  he  was  talking  about  has  been 
'called'  by  some  one  who  knew  intimately  the  life 
he  described.  Kipling,  for  one  outstanding  in 
stance,  and  the  clamor  he  occasioned  by  his 
India." 

MR.  DOUGLAS:  "Quite  so,  indeed!  As  just 
one  point: 

On  the  road  to  Mandalay, 
Where  the  flyin'-fishes  play. 

Mandalay  is  an  inland  town,  five  miles  from  the 
coast.  No  such  animals  anywhere  near  as  flying- 
fishes.  Also : 

An'  the  dawn  comes  up  like  thunder  onter 
China  'crost  the  Bay! 

No  bay  there.    Other  side  of  Mountains." 

But  Captain  Woodside  was  still  on  the  sub 
ject  of  the  Narcissus.  And  here  I  got  a  quick 
glimpse  into  the  caste  of  the  sea — the  drawing 
of  the  line,  by  an  old-time  skipper,  between  the 

[223] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

quarter-deck  and  the  man  before  the  mast.  (A 
beautiful  professional  point.)  He  was  saying, 
the  captain:  "Several  hundred  pages  about  a 
sick  foc'stl  hand,  and  a  nigger  at  that!" 

The  talk  turned  to  the  original  of  London's 
"Sea  Wolf."  Well-known  figure  round  San 
Francisco,  it  seems,  up  till  a  few  years  ago. 
Thus  he  was  drawn  for  me:  Looked  like  any 
thing  but  a  sea-farer.  Conveyed  the  idea  of  a 
"Salvation  Army  Man."  Prince  Albert  coat; 
broad-brimmed,  black  felt  hat;  long,  flowing, 
dark  mustaches.  Professional  smuggler.  Rev 
enue  officers  after  him  for  years;  they  knew  per 
fectly  well  what  he  was  doing;  he  knew  that  they 
knew  it;  never  able  to  "connect  him  up"  with 
anything.  Dare-devil  of  the  deep — strangely 
ironic  end.  Met  his  death  in  a  few  inches  of 
water,  by  a  pier:  got  drunk,  asleep  rolled  off  a 

small  boat. 

******* 

After  luncheon,  with  Mr.  Frisbee  and  his  son 
round  "the  Peninsula"  in  a  car.  (Mr.  Frisbee, 
splendid  man!  so  happy  all  the  while  I  found  him 
difficult  to  keep  up  with.  How  are  you  going 
to  be  roaringly  happy  every  minute  straight 
along  for  seven  hours  at  a  stretch?)  Though 
[224] 


TO  SAN  FRANCISCO 

almost  everything  (except  the  kind  of  thing  I 
tell  you)  has  been  told  about  San  Francisco  (and 
all  California),  I  have  not  seen  the  fact  (as  I 
believe  it  to  be)  mentioned,  that  in  Golden  Gate 
Park  is  the  only  monument  to  Cervantes  in 
America — a  bronze  bust  above  stone  pedestal, 
with  bronze  figures  of  the  immortal  knight  and 
his  immortal  squire  making  obeisance  before  it. 
Sculptor:  Molera  de  Cebrian  (I  don't  vouch  for 
the  spelling).  Monument  presented  to  the  city 
(I  understand)  by  an  old  Spanish  grandee  of 
San  Francisco.  At  the  roads  summit  of  Twin 
Peaks  we  wound  about  and  before  us,  glinting 
in  the  rich  sunshine,  the  city  lay  "like  a  jeweled 
mantle  thrown  carelessly  over  many  peaks"  far 
below.  (Words  in  quotes  from  Inez  Haynes 
Ir win's  scintillating  little  volume,,  "The  Cali- 

forniacs.") 

******* 

Every  time  you  look  around  in  San  Francisco 
there  seems  to  be  a  bookstore.  First  time  I 
looked  around  it  was  the  place  of  Paul  Elder 
and  Company — here  commonly  called  "Paul 
Elder's."  A  shop  of  the  pleasant  attractiveness 
of  design  you  would  expect  to  find  inhabitated 
by  the  man  who  got  up  the  format  of  the  Paul 

[225] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

Elder  books — though  I  do  not  mean  to  at  all 
imply  that  the  atmosphere  of  estheticism  is  here 
laid  on  with  a  trowel. 

Very  pleasant  man,  Mr.  Elder.  Comfortable 
size,  as  you  might  say,  to  look  at;  plump,  af 
fable,  neat  mustache  foil  to  a  round  face;  like 
his  shop — everything  in  excellent  taste,  nothing 
eccentric.  In  his  guest  book  I  signed  my  name 
thus,  "Murray  Hill,  New  York  City,  In  good 
health,"  on  a  page  already  inscribed  as  follows: 

Yone  Noguchi.     Nakano.     Happy  to  return  to  Cali- 

*  f ornia. 
Hugh  Walpole.      Garrick   Club,  London.     Delighted 

to  be  here  at  last! 
Coningsby  Dawson.     New  York. 
Oliver  Lodge,  England.  Full  admiration  for  this  great 

State. 

I  referred  to  Mr.  Elder's  place  as  a  shop.  He 
has  the  whole  of  a  little  building.  One  of  the 
upper  floors  constructed  as  a  lecture  room.  Here 
had  recently  appeared,  in  Saturday  afternoon 
talks:  Peter  Clark  Macfarland,  Dr.  Henry 
Frank,  and  Frederick  O'Brien,  among  others. 
Being  now  a  veteran  of  the  game,  Murray  Hill 
very  cheerfully  signed  up,  at  Mr.  Elder's  courte 
ous  invitation,  to  talk  there  at  an  early  date  "on 
[226] 


TO  SAN  FRANCISCO 

authors  he  had  met  and  other  gossip  of  the  pub 
lishing  offices."  Gossiping  in  Elder's  I  learned 
that  Coningsby  Dawson  had  just  bought  a  place 
at  San  Diego.  And  Theodore  Dreiser,  I  heard, 
was  at  present  writing  in  Los  Angeles. 

Coming  out  of  Mr.  Elder's,  I  saw  across  the 
street  that  excellent  department  store  here  called 
the  White  House,  concerning  the  spacious  book 
section  of  which  I  had  heard  much.  And  after 
my  call  there,  pointed  back  toward  my  home,  the 
Plaza,  I  again  caught  the  scent  of  books. 
Across  what  in  London  would  be  called  a  little 
court  from  Paul  Elder's  (and  what  in  Indian 
apolis  would  be  called  a  little  alley — and  in  Paris 
probably  a  cul-de-sac)  is  the  Old  Book  Shop. 
A  place  of  really  distinctive  character,  dealing 
mainly  in  collectors'  volumes. 

And  there,  right  around  the  Square  from  my 
hotel,  and  also  overlooking  the  little  Park,  I 
saw  the  place  of  A.  M.  Robertson,  here  com 
monly  called  "Robertson's."  Had  been  told  I 
should  see  him.  A  wise  man  it  was,  and  a  very 
friendly  one,  who  told  me  that. 

Mr.  Robertson  (popularly  hailed,  I  soon  dis 
covered,  as  "Alec")  is  a  gentleman  who  has  rel 
ished  life  for  a  very  fair  span  of  years.  The 

[227] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

only  deaf  person,  as  well  as  I  can  recollect,  I 
-ever  enjoyed  talking  with.  Leaving  his  son  in 
charge  of  the  excellent  store:  "We'll  go  to 
lunch."  Round  to  the  Bohemian  Club,  known 
all  over  for  its  annual  Grove  Play  and  its  elab 
orate  and  distinctive  manner  of  entertaining 
visiting  literary  personages.  Palatial  place,  its 
home ;  vast  rooms,  spacious  as  the  Reform  Club, 
of  London. 

We  ate  at  the  "kickers'  table,"  where  (I  was 
informed)  nobody  ever  likes  anything  that  any 
body  else  says.  I  got  into  a  great  row  with  a 
most  admirable  young  man  on  the  subject  of 
printing.  Very  much  against,  I  was  at  the  mo 
ment,  the  William  Morris  school.  Couldn't  "see" 
at  all  the  kind  of  printer  who  thinks,  apparently, 
that  a  writer  was  brought  into  the  world  in  order 
to  give  him  an  opportunity  of  making  a  decora 
tive  page — a  thing  to  capture  the  eye,  to  the  sub 
ordination  of  the  writer's  appeal  to  the  mind. 
Though  I  admitted  that  as  you  couldn't  read 
Chaucer  anyhow,  it  was  all  right  for  the  printer, 
as  much  as  he  pleased,  to  regard  him  as  a  motif 
for  a  pattern  in  black  and  white.  Jolly  time  all 
round! 
[228] 


TO  SAN  FRANCISCO 

Afterward,  to  a  little  ceremony,  the  unveiling 
and  dedication  of  a  painting  presented  to  the  Bo 
hemian  Club  by  several  of  its  members,  who  de 
sired  their  names  to  be  not  known.  When  the 
club  flag  fell  the  picture  revealed  was  a  large 
canvas  by  Jules  Pages,  "Sur  les  Quais,  Paris," 
exhibited  at  the  Paris  Salon,  1913,  and  at  the 
Palace  of  Fine  Arts  of  the  Exposition  of  1915. 
M.  Pages,  present,  made  a  charmingly  diffident 
speech. 

I  was  (by  the  courtesy  of  Mr.  Robertson) 
much  at  the  Club  after  this.  Thursday  nights 
now  (before  I  forget  to  mention  it)  they  put  on 
excellent  entertainments  there:  songs,  and  mu 
sic,  stories  and  recitations;  an  innovation  to 
keep  up  joviality  since — well,  you  know,  just 

since. 

******* 

Funniest,  nicest  things  to  ride  on  «you  ever 
saw.  Clutch  pole  before  you  with  your  knees. 
You  sit  facing  outward,  you  know.  San  Fran- 
ciscoians  become  so  expert  they  don't  have  to  hold 
on.  Whirl  up  hill  and  down  dale,  shoot  around 
corners.  Something  like  one  of  those  jazz  rides 
at  Coney  Island.  And  all  the  time  the  man  be 
hind  you  working  like  fury,  pushing  and  pulling 

[229] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

those  crazy-looking,  huge  levers.  The  cable-cars, 
I  mean.  And,  funny  thing!  they  look  exactly 
like  the  pictures  of  that  new  invention  called  a 
cable-car  which  I  used  to  see  in  St.  Nicholas 
when  I  was  a  small  boyy  and  when  the  only  sort 
of  a  public  street  conveyance  I  had  ever  seen 

in  real  life  was  a  "mule-car." 

******* 

There  at  my  hotel  was  rotund,  jovial  Wallace 
Irwin,  who  had  paid  me  the  honor  of  a  call.  He 
had  just  got  back,  he  said,  from  a  trip  in  his 
"bug  wagon,"  collecting  "Jap  stuff"  in  the  back 

country. 

******* 

Seems  to  me  like  a  foolish  remark.  But  they 
go  on  making  it.  "Another  lovely  day!"  What's 
the  use  of  saying  this,  when  one  day  is  just  like 
another?  When  one  day  is  just  like  another,  un 
til  a  very  temperamental  young  lady  I  know 
i(who  says  the  California  climate  is  "not  moody 
enough")  declares  that  she  wants  "to  smash  that 
azure  sky." 

You  might  just  as  well  say  to  some  one  in 
San  Francisco:  "See  that  beautiful  woman  pass 
ing  there !"  Would  be  just  as  much  point  to  such 
an  observation.  I  tell  you,  old  man,  I  got  so  I 
£230] 


TO  SAN  FRANCISCO 

positively  yearned  to  see,  round  somewhere,  a 
woman  who  was  not  beautiful.  I'm  afraid,  how 
ever,  I  should  have  rushed  forward  and  kissed 
her,  for  her  dear,  pathetic  homeliness'  sake!  But 
I  'spect  the  beauty  of  California  women  has  been 
press-agented  enough. 


[231] 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A  PAL  OF  JACK  LONDON 

AND  so  I  went  over  to  the  office  of  the  Call. 
A  young  man  there  named  Mr.  Hoffman 
I  wanted  to  see.  In  he  takes  me  to  see  the  editor, 
Fremont  Older.  Couple  of  other  chaps  come 
along.  And  we  all  talk  a  while.  Fremont 
Older!  What  a  beautiful  name  (had  just  such 
a  man  not  owned  it)  it  would  have  been  for  a 
novelist  to  have  thought  of  for  just  such  a  figure 
— looks  (Mr.  Older)  like  a  picture,  by  a  first- 
rate  illustrator,  in  a  popular  magazine  of  a  vet 
eran,  graft-fighting  newspaper  man.  "He  has 
put,"  one  of  my  companions  told  me,  "more  of 
our  best  citizens  in  jail  than  anybody  else  in 
town."  Has  been  associated  in  his  career  with 
various  San  Francisco  papers.  Lives  on  a  ranch, 
fifty  miles  out.  Commutes. 

He  remarked,  by  way  of  apology  to  th    vis 
itor,  that  life  in  San  Francisco  was  "pretty  flat" 
now  that  "the  old  days  of  booze"  were  past. 
[232] 


A  PAL  OF  JACK  LONDON 

What  was  it  I  liked  so  much  about  San  Fran 
cisco?  Well,  I  tried  to  tell  him.  Has  (to  my 
mind)  more  the  look  and  the  feel  of  a  first-rate 
city  than  any  place  to  be  found  after  you  cross 
the  Hudson  River  headed  West.  And  yet  it  is, 
comparatively,  tiny.  Can  walk  from  one  end  of 
Market  Street  to  the  other,  and  back  again,  in 
an  easy  stroll.  A  city  that  has  somewhat  the  ef 
fect,  to  employ  something  of  a  conceit,  of  a  plas 
ter  model  of  a  city  on  view  at  an  exhibition  of 
the  Architectural  League.  A  metropolitan,  a 
cosmopolitan,  a  great  city  in  miniature. 

MR.  OLDER:  "Maybe  one  reason  is  that  it  never 
was  a  town.  Sprang  up  a  city.  Now  when  I 
was  in  Buffalo  not  long  ago  I  remember  it  struck 
me  as  very  town-like." 

It  was  the  "old  Palace  Hotel,"  according  to 
Older,  that  first  made  San  Francisco  known  all 
over  the  world.  In  Switzerland  he  had  heard: 
"Oh!  yes;  that's  where  the  Palace  Hotel  is."  The 
intention  of  the  original  owners  had  been  to  make 
the  finest  hotel  on  earth.  Had  never  considered 
transportation  facilities  into  the  city,  or  anything 
like  that.  Dining  in  rooms,  whole  turkey  al 
ways  served;  what  wasn't  eaten  never  touched 

[233] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

again,  thrown  away;  next  guest,  new  turkey; 
amorous  waste — spirit  of  the  old  "flush  days." 

So  out  to  lunch  at  the  Palace.  A  dozen  others 
turn  up  at  the  table.  Come  and  go  without  for 
mality.  Among  them  John  Barry  (a  gentleman 
bearing  a  marked  resemblance  to  John  Drew), 
prominent  feature  story  writer  here,  who  turns 
out  to  be  a  close  friend  of  Charlie  Towne  and 
everybody  else  "back  East." 

MR.  HOFFMAN:  "All  rules  of  journalism  are 
violated  here:  editors  sit  down  with  the  business 
office." 

MURRAY  HILL:  "So  long  as  the  editors  do  not 
corrupt  the  business  office  I  suppose  it's  all 
right." 

I  hear  much  affectionate  reminiscence  of 
"famous"  old  saloons.  One  among  them  in  par 
ticular,  The  Bank  Exchange,  kept  by  one  Dun 
can  Nicol,  and  hallowed  by  memories  of  Mark 
Twain,  Bret  Harte  and  Stevenson,  who  had  his 
individual  lemon-squeezer  there. 

I  have  now  to  explode  a  monstrous  fallacy. 

That  the  Calif ornian   (native  or  by  adoption) 

never  ceases  rooting  for  California  except  when 

he  is  asleep  is  an  idea  that  flourishes  all  over  the 

[234] 


A  PAL  OF  JACK  LONDON 

map.  The  disease,  Calif ornoia,  is  swatted  in  all 
the  books.  Let  me  set  the  matter  right. 

Mr.  Hoffman  is  glad  I  came  when  I  did,  in 
early  Spring.  He  describes  the  "drying  up"  of 
the  country  within  the  next  few  weeks.  Says 
so  many  tourists  from  the  "green  East"  who 
come  "fed  up"  with  "Chamber  of  Commerce 
glories"  are  disappointed.  Flowers  expected; 
everything  brown.  "Now's  the  time!" 

Nope!  Modesty  with  'em  (with  the  San 
Franciscoians,  at  any  rate)  is  almost  a  vice. 
Apologize  for  everything.  Cringe  and  crawl 
about.  Water  front?  Suppose  it  will  seem 
pretty  small  after  that  of  New  York — but  would 
you  mind  looking  at  it?  Or,  morning  after  morn 
ing,  this:  "Pity  it  isn't  a  nicer  day,"  some  one 
says.  "What's  the  matter  with  it?"  you  ask — 
as  beautiful  a  day  as  you  ever  saw  in  your  life. 
"Oh!  there's  rather  a  high  wind."  High  wind? 
Pooh!  On  Manhattan  Island,  'twould  be  no 
wind  at  all. 

"But  all  that,"  a  sly  one  tells  me,  "is  just  their 

way  of  drawing  your  fire." 

******* 

Went  to  see  S.  Coryn,  editor  of  The  Argo 
naut.  Wanted  to  get  a  sketch  of  him  for  my 

[235] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

gallery.     Found  him  in,  but  too  hoarse  with  a 

cold  to  talk,  or  even  to  whisper. 

******* 
I  did  not  see  any  of  the  great  collections  on  the 

coast,  about  which  much  more  should  be  written 
than  is  generally  known,  even  among  well-in 
formed  bookmen.  But  I  did  not  have  to  seek 
diligently  to  find  gentlemen  whose  avocation  is 
collecting,  within  the  range  of  merely  prosper 
ous  means  (but  with  love,  science  and  erudition 
in  the  art),  fine  and  rare  books.  Mr.  Young, 
of  the  California  and  Hawaiian  Sugar  Refining 
Company,  is  such  a  one.  Another,  a  Dr.  Robert 
son  (distinguished,  I  believe,  as  a  specialist  in 
mental  and  nervous  disorders,  retired),  whisked 
me  one  day  out  to  his  home  at  the  apex  of  Rus 
sian  Hill;  where,  from  his  library  constructed 
on  the  roof,  we  looked  out  over  the  city  and  the 
bay;  while  he  elaborated  his  entertaining  theory 
that  Bacon  was  a  paranoiac;  and  we  discussed 
his  Caxtons,  Moxons,  his  copies  of  the  first,  sec 
ond,  third  and  fourth  editions  of  the  "Rubaiyat," 
his  horn  books,  New  England  primers,  his 
Thackeray  and  "Pickwick"  in  original  parts,  and 
the  lore  of  "states,"  and  typographical  errors  of 

bibliographical  significance. 

*         *         *         *         *         *         * 

[236] 


A  PAL  OF  JACK  LONDON 

They  called  him  "Finn,"  short  for  Phineas. 
Frolic  (pronounced  Frowlick)  was  his  surname, 
and  frolic  was  his  nature.  Frolic,  too,  was  what 
it  meant,  his  name  (I  understand),  in  the  lan 
guage  of  his  native  country.  A  Norwegian. 
Sculptor  by  profession.  Had  designed,  Mr. 
Douglas  informed  me,  "miles"  of  sculpture  at 
the  San  Francisco  Exposition.  But  the  occu 
pation  of  sculptor  is,  one  perceives,  an  inter 
mittent  one — there  are  not  miles  of  monuments 
to  be  built  every  day.  And  so  Finn  was  at  pres 
ent  engaged  in  constructing  a  "studio"  for  Mr. 
Douglas  behind  his  house  in  the  suburb  of  Bur- 
lingame.  I  should  have  called  it  a  library,  my 
self,  or  a  study.  But  out  here  they  prefer  to 
call  anything  of  the  kind  a  studio. 

Stalwart,  jovial,  garbed  in  the  costume  of  a 
laborer,  with  the  heart  of  a  boy,  given  to  joyous 
bursts  of  merriment  at  every  mishap,  Finn  took 
Douglas  and  me  for  a  drive  in  his  decidedly  di 
lapidated  Ford.  As  we  rattled  along  the  won 
derful  avenues  of  eucalyptus  I  heard  the  story 
of  his  humorous  car. 

Somewhere  at  a  distance  from  San  Francisco 
Finn  had  read  "The  Sea  Wolf,"  and  determined 

[237] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

that  he  must  go  to  see  an  author  so  much  after 
his  own  heart.  London  at  once  took  a  fancy  to 
Frolic — the  right  type.  The  two  quickly  became 
close  friends.  Gambling  with  London  the  sculp 
tor  won  a  cow  and  three  goats.  He  kept  the 
COY/  (or  rather  the  cow  kept  him)  for  a  number 
of  years.  Finally,  however,  he  declared: 
"What's  the  good  of  a  cow?  One  must  keep  up 
with  the  times."  And  he  traded  his  cow  for  the 
Ford. 

We  passed  the  house  of  Stewart  Edward 
White;  which,  I  was  told,  had  been  "built  by 
books,"  that  is  a  new  wing,  or  room,  having  been 
added  from  time  to  time  to  the  original  structure 
as  the  author  published  a  new  book.  A  long, 
low,  rambling  dwelling  (my  impression),  largely 
obscured  from  our  vision  by  a  gigantic  oak  tree 
before  the  door. 

******* 

"Yes,"  George  Douglas  was  saying,  "Chi 
cago,  or  some  other  place  like  that  in  the  East." 

Certainly  a  brilliant  commutation  scene,  as  we 
waited  for  the  nine  something,  Monday  morning 
train  to  "the  city" — always  "the  city,"  San  Fran 
cisco,  to  the  Calif  ornian.  Gleaming  in  the  golden 
[238] 


A  PAL  OF  JACK  LONDON 

sunshine  the  pearl  gray  suburban  station  of 
Spanish  mission  design;  sentinel  palm  trees  rear 
ing  high  aloft ;  a  very  smartly-dressed  throng,  sev 
eral  gentlemen  arriving  on  horseback,  handsome 
Airedales  leaping  on  before,  grooms  following 
in  the  rear. 

"What  would  you  say,"  I  asked,  "was  its 
source:  this  affinity,  apparently,  of  San  Fran 
cisco  with  ancient  Greece?  Greek  theaters  all 
about,  Greek  dances  everywhere." 

"Why,  funny  thing!"  he  answered.  "I've  just 
written  an  editorial  about  that.  A  similarity  of 
climatic  conditions,  for  one  thing:  opportunity 
here  for  open-air  performances  all  the  year 
round.  Then  this  is,  too,  a  seaport,  and  a  city 

of  much  mingling  of  races." 

******* 

Of  course,  I  was  continually  asked  if  I  had 
met  George  Sterling.  "No,  not  yet."  "But  he 
lives  over  there  at  the  Bohemian  Club — you  cer 
tainly  must  not  miss  seeing  him!" 

I  did,  however,  by  one  accident  and  another, 
repeatedly  miss  him.  Then  it  came  about  in  this 
way  that  by  chance  I  saw  him:  Proprietor  of 
a  book  store,  Mr.  Newbegin,  was  to  have  the 
Mayor's  secretary  tour  me  about  through  places 

[239] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

difficult  of  access  to  the  stranger.  But  some 
thing  prevented  the  attendance  of  the  Mayor's 
secretary  on  the  visitor  so  to  have  been  honored ; 
so  that  night  we  went  instead,  a  party  of  us 
conveyed  by  Mr.  Newbegin  at  a  very  exhilarat 
ing  clip  in  his  machine,  to  a  very  pleasant  resort 
some  distance  out  on  the  beach,  where  later  on 
much  charm  was  contributed  to  the  dance  by  the 
arrival  of  a  bevy  of  Raymond  Hitchcock's 
"Hitchy-Koo"  lasses. 

Then  my  new  friend,  Leon  Gelber  (young 
man  in  the  book  department  at  the  White 
House)  said  that  an  excellent  thing  to  do  would 
be  to  have  a  talk  with  Pauline  Jacobson,  whose 
career  as  a  newspaper  woman  had  given  her 
much  lore  of  San  Francisco.  We  found  her  at 
dinner  in  a  restaurant  in  the  Italian  quarter — a 
thriving  place  much  frequented  by  spirits  of  lit 
erary  and  artistic  tendency.  Miss  Jacobson  pro 
posed  that  we  borrow  a  detective  from  the  police 
department  to  go  around  with  us  some  night 
soon.  She  also  very  cordially  invited  us  to  the 
"first  social  and  dance"  shortly  to  be  given  by 
the  Bernal  Heights  Athletic  Club,  an  organi 
zation  of  youthful,  amateur  prize-fighters  in  a 
very  hardy  part  of  town ;  at  which  function  Miss 
[240] 


A  PAL  OF  JACK  LONDON 

Jacobson,  as  the  principal  patroness  of  the  so 
ciety,  was  to  lead  the  dance  with  the  local 
butcher. 

While  we  talked  I  had  been  observing  at  a 
nearby  table  a  figure  of  more  than  a  little  dis 
tinction  in  effect.  I  could  not  at  first  explain 
to  myself  why  this  countenance,  which  I  knew 
to  be  that  of  a  stranger  to  me,  should  have  a 
character  so  familiar.  Then  as  the  long,  aristo 
cratic,  delicately  carven  features,  under  a  tum 
bled  shock  of  graying  hair,  were  turned  from 
profile  directly  toward  me,  I  recognized  the  re 
semblance.  It  was  a  face  strikingly  like  that 
handsome  poet's  mask  of  Richard  Le  Gallienne. 
"Yes,"  said  Pauline,  "that  is  George  Sterling 


now." 


(Perhaps  I  should  explain  that  Miss  Jacob- 
son,  as  George  Douglas  puts  it,  "belongs,"  and 
so  it  is  customary  for  her  friends  to  refer  to  her 
as  Pauline.)  As  with  his  party  (two  young 
women)  he  passed  our  table  she  called  to  him. 
He  paused  a  moment.  Not  quite  so  tall  as  Mr. 
Le  Gallienne,  slighter  in  build.  Very  modest 
in  manner,  gentle  of  speech.  Expression 
thoughtful,  countenance  (I  felt)  somewhat  worn. 
Though  we  again  arranged  for  a  meeting,  this  (I 

[241] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

cannot  recall  why)  fell  through,  too;  and  I  did 

not  see  him  again. 

******* 

"But,  you  know,"  said  Pauline,  "until  four 
years  ago  we  never  had  any  paper  money  at 
all  out  here,  nothing  but  gold  and  silver." 

As  those  of  us  accustomed  to  "currency"  all 
do,  I  was  speaking  of  their  silver  "cartwheels" 
— and  how  I  found  it  necessary  to  keep  one  sus 
pender  jacked  up  much  firmer  than  the  other, 
and  then  went  about  feeling  that  I  walked  like 
a  postman,  weighted  down  on  one  side. 

"Well,  when  I  was  in  the  East,"  she  replied, 
"I  couldn't  stand  it — those  bills  always  given  me; 
had  them  changed  for  silver,  so  that  I  could  feel 

I  had  some  money." 

******** 

A  night  or  two  later,  past  that  quaint  little 
Park,  Portsmouth  Square,  where  prosperous 
Chinatown  merges  into  the  Italian  quarter,  and 
where  in  the  center  of  the  park  the  graceful  little 
ship  rides  on  its  tall  pedestal  graved  "To  Re 
member  Robert  Louis  Stevenson" — past  Ports 
mouth  Square  and  then  a  short  step  downhill 
to  the  right  to  a  police  station  there,  where  we 
picked  up  the  detective  assigned  to  be  loaned  to 
[242] 


A  PAL  OF  JACK  LONDON 

us.  With  our  cicerone  through  strange  ways: 
into  shy  courts  and  twisting  alleys;  up  narrow, 
winding,  murky  stairways ;  along  intricate  corri 
dors;  through  secret,  panel  doors  (sometimes 
marked  by  the  batterings  of  former  police  raids) , 
with  bolts  upon  bolts,  chains  and  oaken  bars  at 
their  back;  down  difficult  ladders  into  pits  of 
ebony  blackness;  then  down  more  ladders,  and 
still  more — in  short,  here  and  there  in  that  amaz 
ing  labyrinth,  now  deserted,  which  was  one  time, 
not  so  long  ago,  a  subterranean  city  of  gambling 

and  opium  solace. 

******* 

"And  where  do  you  go  next?"  they  asked, 
everybody  asked.  Spirit  of  happiness  in  the  air. 
Smiling  approval  of  my  doings.  "Why,  I'm  go 
ing  to  Los  Angeles  very  shortly,"  I  would  re 
ply.  Sudden  dismay.  Pall  would  fall  upon  the 
company.  Ominous  shaking  of  heads.  "You 
won't  like  it  there,"  the  general  conviction.  Why 
not?  "Bad  climate;  hot,  sticky.  Nothing  there 
but  'one-lungers'  and  the  movies" — and  so  on. 
Over  and  over  repeated  in  San  Francisco,  this 
scene.  Almost  had  me  scared  out  of  going  to 
Los  Angeles,  this  universal  sentiment.  "Cer 
tainly  these  people  know  more  about  the  matter 

[243] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

than  I  do,"  I  said  to  myself.  "Doubtless  I'll 
not  like  the  place.  Why  not  stay  here.  I  don't 
have  to  go  there." 

At  the  first  of  the  following  week  I  had 
planned  to  go.  (This  was  the  middle  of  the 
week.)  I  was  walking  along  Market  Street 
about  ten  in  the  morning.  I  was  not  thinking 
about  Los  Angeles.  I  was  not  thinking  about 
San  Francisco.  I  cannot  recall  that  I  was  defi 
nitely  thinking  of  anything.  Well,  probably,  I 
was  simply  enjoying  the  exhilaration  of  my 
movement  through  an  animated  scene.  Suddenly 
I  had  one  of  those  mysterious  calls  of  the  spirit : 
I  would  go  to  Los  Angeles,  at  once.  Rapidly 
to  the  Ferry  House.  "Tell  me  a  good  train  to 
day  to  Los  Angeles."  "At  five  this  afternoon," 
he  said. 

That  is  the  way  I  transact  business. 


[244] 


CHAPTER  XVII 


I  BECOME  A  MOVIE      DIRECTOR 

1HAVE  an  aunt  there.  She  (I  Ijad  wired) 
met  me  at  the  train.  By  nine  in  the  morn 
ing  I  was  installed  at  the  Alexandria.  I  went 
forth  to  look  at  the  city.  I  liked  it,  its  physiog 
nomy,  immensely.  In  my  heart  a  lark  was  sing 
ing.  At  Fifth  and  Hill  Streets  I  went  into  the 
delightful  little  park  where  so  many  pigeons 
stroll  about  the  walks.  Then  I  had  some  "Cali 
fornia  orange  juice"  at  one  of  those  innumerable, 
immaculate  little  stands.  Next  I  was  shaved. 
I  began  to  feel  a  fury  at  the  barber — would  he 
never,  never,  never  be  done! 

I  was  turning  back  the  way  I  had  come.  I 
was  not  (this  time)  conscious  of  anything  seri 
ously  wrong  with  me.  Suddenly — Bang! — 
something  seemed  to  have  hit  me  a  terrific  blow ! 
But  the  smash  had  come,  apparently,  not  from 
without,  but,  curiously  enough,  from  within  my 
body.  I  began  to  tremble  and  shake,  to  find 

[245] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

enough  breath  only  with  great  difficulty,  and  to 
feel  that"  at  any  moment  I  might  pitch  headlong 
upon  the  pavement. 

So!  another  one  of  my  celebrated  death  scenes, 
first  staged  in  Indianapolis.  Would  I  be  able 
to  make  my  hotel?  Heaven  alone  knew!  I 
sought  to  measure  with  my  eye  the  distance  to 
be  traveled.  And  I  saw  coming  down  the  middle 
of  the  street  ...  I  cannot  say  that  I  almost 
fainted  with  astonishment  at  what  I  saw,  as  I 
was  very  nearly  in  a  faint  already.  Rather,  I 
think  my  amazement  at  the  apparition  before 
me  revived  me  for  a  moment.  Approaching  me 
(coming  for  me,  as  it  seemed)  was  a  street-car 
labeled,  "Crown  Hill." 

"In  the  name  of  all  that's  holy!"  I  cried,  "if 
that  damn'd  car  hasn't  followed  me  two  thousand 
miles!" 

(I  learned  later  that  the  Los  Angeles  Crown 
Hill  is  a  recreation  Park,  not,  like  the  Indianapo 
lis  Crown  Hill,  a  cemetery.) 

»*.•**»* 

I  wish  to  announce  here  a  remarkable  medical 
discovery.    We  are  all  acquainted  with  the  idea 
of  the  beneficent  effect  on  a  patient  of  a  physi 
cian's    personality,   his   manner.      Often   more 
[246] 


I  BECOME  A  MOVIE  ''DIRECTOR" 

potenf ,  perhaps,  than  his  drugs.  But  little  atten 
tion,  I  fear,  has  been  paid  to  the  therapeutic  sig 
nificance  of  a  physician's  dress.  I  was  much 
heartened  in  the  afternoon  by  the  amiable  and 
magnetic  presence  of  Dr.  George  L.  Cole,  and 
much  calmed  by  his  prescriptions ;  but  it  was  that 
evening  when  he  turned  up  in  his  dinner  jacket 
that  I  arose  from  my  bed  inspired  to  join  (albeit 
with  something  of  a  totter)  in  the  zest  of  life. 
I  most  heartily  recommend  what  I  discovered 
by  repetition  to  be  his  sartorial  practice  to  the 
medical  fraternity,  particularly  in  the  cases  of 

life  or  death. 

*       m       m       m       m       a       * 

Maybe  you  will  recall  that  at  the  time  of  your 
first  visit  to  California  you  were  a  matter  of 
astonishment  to  the  people  there.  .  .  .  "Whatl 
Never  been  here  before!"  Incredible,  certainly. 

Well,  despite  the  fact  that  I  had  neglected 
them  so  long,  everybody  I  met  seemed  glad  to 
see  me.  Brightly:  "and  by  what  way  did  you 
come  to  Los  Angeles?"  I  had,  I  said,  been  for 
several  weeks  in  San  Francisco.  "Oh!"  the  re 
ply;  sad  faces  then  all  round.  What  was  the 
matter  with  San  Francisco?  Well,  I  learned 
that  it  was  a  terrible  place :  awful  climate,  high 

[247] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

winds,  cold,  fogs,  no  home  life  there,  apartments, 

hotels,  and  so  on  much  more. 

***•«*       » 

I  had  wondered  when  first  I  arrived  in  Los 
Angeles  what  in  special  it  would  be  that  was 
going  on  that  day.  Never  had  I  seen  on  ordi 
nary  occasions  such  throngs  on  the  sidewalks  of 
any  city,  every  one  in  holiday  attire,  or  what  in 
its  jubilant  colors  anywhere  else  certainly  would 
have  the  effect  of  particularly  festive  holiday  at 
tire.  The  scene,  however,  was  merely  the  way 
Los  Angeles  "goes  on"  all  the  time.  "Looks 
like  Indianapolis  on  Saturday  nights  when  the 
When  band  used  to  play,"  said  a  cousin  of  mine 
I  discovered  practicing  medicine  in  the  city. 
Happy,  humorous  parallel,  and  quaint  memory! 
.  .  .  On  Saturday  nights  when  the  When  band 
used  to  play  and  all  Indianapolis  "dressed  up" 
and  came  "down  town"  to  promenade. 

Or  an  amusing  conceit  rather,  not  an  apt  paral 
lel.  Indianapolis,  of  course,  was  never  anything 
like  this.  Nor  is  New  York. 

"Now  to  Detroit,  let  us  say,"  spoke  my  cousin, 
"you  may  have  gone,  or  you  may  go,  or  you 
may  not.  Los  Angeles  is  like  New  York  in  that 
[248] 


I  BECOME  A  MOVIE  "DIRECTOR" 

everybody  turns  up  there  now  and  then,  or  some 
time." 

"But  it's  a  different  picture,"  I  said;  "a  pic 
ture  in  a  much  gayer  color  scheme,  done,  so  to 
say,  with  a  much  lighter  touch,  and  with  more 
verve  and  go."  And  I  remembered  what  some 
one  had  told  me:  "That's  not  America  out 
there.  You'll  find  it  is  a  foreign  country." 

Can  you  get  on  a  train  at  Erewhon  Junction 
rather  plain  as  to  face  and  figure  and  get  off  at 
Los  Angeles  a  beautiful  woman?  The  mystery 
of  the  thing,  why  every  type  and  age  of  woman 
here  should  be  so  beautiful,  continued  to  bother 
me.  "Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  my  doctor 
cousin,  "a  good  many  of  them  come  to  see  me. 
They  all  want  to  be  more  slim,  or  more  plump, 
or  something  else — all  want,  in  some  way,  to  be 

more  beautiful." 

******* 

Doubtless  I  am  a  highly  irritable  man.  I  got 
into  a  squabble  with  the  hotel  telephone  opera 
tor.  As  I  was  about  to  hang  up  the  receiver 
in  my  room,  after  reproving  her  the  second  time, 
I  overheard  her  remark,  aside,  to  some  one  in  the 
office  below:  "Well,  I  thought  that  boy  had 

left  home!"    Rather  witty,  I  thought. 

******* 

[249] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

At  breakfast  in  an  excellent  little  restaurant 
I  was  reading  a  copy  of  the  magazine  section 
of  the  Los  Angeles  Times,  which  I  found  in  a 
pile  of  papers  there.  I  was  particularly  in 
terested  in  an  "announcement"  (running  to 
something  like  a  page  and  a  half)  of  the  "recent 
removal  of  the  world's  literary  capitol  to  Los 
Angeles."  Three  classes  of  authors  were  pre 
sented  as  being  here  at  present:  one  group  writ 
ing  short  stories  and  novels;  another  writing 
stories  to  be  "picturized" ;  a  third  group  here  to 
supervise  the  "picturization"  of  their  stories  and 
plays  which  Lad  already  met  with  popular  suc 
cess  when  published  or  acted.  Among  others 
(I've  probably  missed  a  number)  named  as  pres 
ent  part  or  all  the  year  were: — Rupert  Hughes, 
Gertrude  Atherton,  Mary  Roberts  Rinehart, 
Rex  Beach,  Peter  B.  Kyne,  Gouverneur  Mor 
ris,  Cosmo  Hamilton,  Harold  McGrath,  Wallace 
Irwin,  Will  Levington  Comfort,  Ellis  Parker 
Butler,  Winchell  Smith,  Walt  Mason,  William 
Allen  White,  Wallace  Rice,  Francis  Grieson, 
Eugene  Manlove  Rhodes,  Frank  Condon,  Elmer 
Harris,  Bayard  Veiller,  Octavus  Roy  Cohan, 
Thompson  Buchanan,  Basil  King,  LeRoy  Scott, 
and  John  Burroughs. 
[250] 


I  BECOME  A  MOVIE  "DIRECTOR" 

Then  I  went  into  one  of  those  numerous  bright 
and  cheery  "pressing  parlors,"  to  see  what  they 
were  like.  I  don't  know  whether  or  not  you 
have  been  in  any  of  them.  Well,  the  window 
says  you  can  be  pressed  in  eight  minutes  (not 
long  ago  it  had  taken  me  two  days  to  get  back  a 
suit  from  a  hotel  "valet") .  You  see  at  the  back 
of  the  shop  a  row  of  little  compartments  (some 
thing  like  telephone  booths)  labeled  "Dressing 
Rooms."  When  the  door  of  one  of  these  is  open 
that  means  it  is  available.  You  enter,  dump 
everything  out  of  your  pockets  onto  a  little 
table,  press  a  bell,  door  opens  the  width  of  a 
crack;  you  hand  your  suit  to  a  hand  thrust 
through,  sit  down  and  read  a  copy  of  The  Sat 
urday  Evening  Post — never  any  literature  in 
these  places  except  that  journal.  Within  four 
minutes  a  hand  thrusts  in  to  you  your  trousers 
and  waistcoat.  You  put  these  on,  turn  about, 
and  the  hand  presents  you  with  your  coat.  You 
come  out  two  minutes  to  the  good,  pressed  as 
fashionably  as  anything. 

You  go  down  the  street;  and  (if  you  have 
the  fresh  eye  of  the  stranger)  you  are  struck 
by  the  extraordinary  number  of  stationery 
stores,  each  of  remarkable  size — it  would  seem, 

[251] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

indeed,  that  an  army  of  writers  inhabits  Los 
Angeles.  You  are  struck  by  the  number  of  "art" 
shops.  By  the  number  of  fine  "markets."  By 
the  extraordinary  number  of  places  where  maga 
zines  are  displayed  in  profusion  for  sale.  By 
the  remarkably  handsome  bank  buildings.  By 
'(if  it  is  meal  time)  the  long  queues  before  the 
numerous  "cafeterias."  By  (if  it  is  evening)  the 
long,  long  queues  before  the  picture  theaters.  By 
the  frequency  of  "taxidermy  studios."  By  (if 
it  be  the  beginning  or  the  close  of  a  week-end) 
the  streams  of  young  women  "hikers,"  in  their 
jolly,  picturesque  "knickers."  By  the  beauty  of 
the  mountains  at  the  end  of  the  street.  But, 
most  of  all,  you  are  struck  by  the  amazing  num 
ber  of  photographers'  establishments;  by  the 
very  high  excellence,  in  general,  of  the  work  they 
display,  by  (of  course)  the  invariable  beauty  of 
the  women  who  have  been  before  their  cameras, 
— and  by  the  vast  number  of  their  productions 
which  exhibit  feminine  loveliness  in  some  degree 
of  nudity,  in  subjects  ranging  from  "California 
bathing  girls"  to  poses  in  some  form  of  "Greek 
classical  dance." 

These  are  some  of  the  things  which  strike  the 
mind  of  the  innocent  observer.    As  I  was  going 
[252] 


I  BECOME  A  MOVIE  "DIRECTOR" 

along  that  day,  I  was  struck  in  the  chest,  a  whack 
of  greeting  by  the  friendly  fist  of  my  old  friend, 
Alfred  Kreymborg — benedict  now,  published 
poet,  acted  playwright,  paid  lecturer,  accom 
plished  mustache-wearer  and  cane-carrier,  whom 
I  used  to  know  as  a  denizen  of  Fourteenth  Street, 
about  fifteen  years  ago,  before  he  was  any  of 

these  things. 

*****#!* 

I  was  on  my  way  to  see  a  bookseller  celebrated 
(in  the  trade)  nationally,  C.  C.  Parker.  Slender, 
alert,  gray,  pleasantly  cosmopolitan  in  mind  and 
manner;  a  gentleman  whose  idea  of  a  friendly 
reception  to  a  stranger  is  to  loan  him  half  the 
Parker  stock  to  read,  guard  his  health,  cash  his 
checks,  and  board  him  at  the  cozy  Los  Angeles 
Club,  which  overlooks  the  little  park  I  have  men 
tioned. 

Besides  Mr.  Parker's  extensive  place,  there 
are  a  couple  of  other  good  book  stores  in  Los 
Angeles,  Fowler  Brothers  and  the  Jones  Book 
Store;  also  two  or  three  first-rate  department 
stores  carry  very  fair  stocks  of  books,  notably 
one  called  Bullocks.  Then,  in  addition,  there 
are  a  surprising  number  of  second-hand  book 
stores,  of  a  curious  character.  They  have  no 

[253] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

front  walls  to  them;  but  are  open  to  the  street 
all  the  way  across  from  side  to  side.  They  do 
not  close  on  Sundays ;  whether  there  is  any  man 
ner  of  closing  them  up  at  all  or  not,  I'm  sure 
I  don't  know. 

A  matter  for  THE  BOOKMAN  to  note,  too,  is 
that  out  this  way  you  are  likely  to  find  (what 
you  do  not  always  find  in  some  cities  of  consider 
able  size  in  the  Middle  West)  the  leading  news 
papers  carrying  regularly  on  Saturdays  or  Sun 
days  a  full  page  of  book  reviews  and  news.  Not 
only  that  but  the  literary  editors  of  these  papers 
care  not  a  rap  for  expense  in  the  matter  of  en 
tertaining  visitors  in  the  literary  business.  They 
relish  hugely  blowing  out  three  tires  in  an  after 
noon  showing  you  the  environs  of  their  city.  I 
have  here  in  mind  particularly  a  very  entertain 
ing  afternoon  spent  with  Thomas  F.  Ford  (au 
thor  of  a  recently  published  book,  "The  Foreign 
Trade  of  the  United  States") ,  Sunday  Magazine 
editor  of  the  Los  Angeles  Times,  and  who  with 
his  wife,  Lillian  C.  Ford,  gets  up  the  book  page 
of  that  paper.  A  member  of  the  party  was  a 
gentleman  now  resident  here  who  is  closely  af 
filiated  with  Eastern  journalism,  W.  J.  Ghent, 
[254] 


I  BECOME  A  MOVIE  "DIRECTOR" 

a  contributor  to  The  Nation  and  The  New  Re 
public. 

******* 

I  paused  on  Broadway — I  like  the  effect  of 
the  principal  street  of  a  city  being  named  Broad 
way;  you  usually  find  in  your  travels  some  dis 
reputable  back  alley  called  Fifth  Avenue,  or 
some  horrible  dump  of  a  lodging-house  named 
the  Waldorf.  I  paused  on  Broadway  to  read  a 
sign.  It  said: 


Why  Pay  Rent? 
Buy  a  furnished 
Summer  Home  on 
Wheels.    And  go 
Where  you  please. 
Ready  for  the  Road 
In  Five  minutes. 


******* 
I  have  not  been  exactly  what  you  could  call 
"addicted"  to  the  movies.     I  do  not  say  it  as 
a  boast;  but  to  explain  that  I  was  ill  acquainted 

[255] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

with  them.  When  I  wrote  back  to  New  York 
that  I  had  got  the  movie  habit,  my  correspondent 
replied:  "Do  you  know,  Murray,  what  you  said 
the  last  time  I  asked  you  to  take  me  to  the 
movies?  You  replied:  Til  gladly  die  for  you; 
but  I  won't  go  with  you  to  the  movies.' " 

In  fact,  the  last  time  I  did  go  to  a  motion- 
picture  show  (before  I  came  out  here)  the  cir 
cumstances  were  as  follows:  This  was  perhaps 
a  couple  of  years  ago.  In  a  club  I  was  set  upon 
by  my  friend  Reginald  Birch,  who  declared  that 
it  was  necessary  for  him  to  go  to  a  movie  show 
that  night — as  he  would  have  to  be  shaved  in 
the  morning — that  he  couldn't  go  alone ;  and  that 
I  should  have  to  go  with  him.  The  facts,  it  ap 
peared,  were  these :  His  barber  had  a  baby  who 
was  being  shown  on  the  screen  at  a  certain  pic 
ture  theater;  Mr.  Birch,  yielding  to  the  father's 
natural  pride,  had  declared  that  he  would  go  to 
see  this  wonderful  spectacle;  and  he  could  not 
again  face  his  barber  until  he  could  say  that  he 
had  done  this.  It  was  a  terrible  show;  one  of 
those  two-cast-away-on-a-desert-island  affairs. 
We  sat,  in  an  endeavor  to  avoid  the  pain  of  fol 
lowing  the  story,  attempting  to  keep  our  minds 
in  as  much  of  a  torpor  as  possible.  The  baby 
1256] 


I  BECOME  A  MOVIE  "DIRECTOR" 

did  not  appear  until  the  very  end.    The  instant 
it  was  flashed  upon  the  screen  we  grabbed  our 
hats,  fled  to  a  cab,  and  drove  rapidly  away. 
But,  as  I  say,  my  experience  of  the  pictures 

had  been  meager  and  unfortunate. 

******* 

I  have  been  told  that  many  persons  have  said 
that  after  seeing  the  various  processes  in  the  pro 
duction  of  a  film  the  "romance"  of  the  movies 
had  been  "spoiled"  for  them.  I  found  the  mat 
ter  precisely  the  other  way.  I  saw  into  only  the 
better  "studios,"  and  but  a  couple  of  those.  All 
in  all,  I  was  very  favorably  impressed  indeed  by 
what  appeared  to  me  to  be  evidence  of  a  con 
crete  endeavor,  and  a  zest  in  striving  to  lift  the 
art  and  the  science  of  motion  picture  production 
continually  to  a  higher  plane. 

To  Culver  City  first  I  went.  Being  unac 
quainted  with  the  technic  of  being  admitted  to 
such  handsomely  enclosed  places  of  this  nature,  I 
first  attempted  to  walk  in  at  an  entrance  marked, 
"This  gate  for  extra  talent  only."  Having  found 
the  right  door,  I  waited  in  a  little  office  for  the 
acquaintance  I  had  made  the  other  night, 
Thomas  N.  Miranda,  whose  official  title,  I  be 
lieve,  is  that  of  "editor"  for  this  "corporation." 

[257] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

Here  I  was  struck  by  the  superior  character  of 
the  single  decoration  of  this  office — a  more  un- 
motion-picture-like  thing  would  be  hard  to  im 
agine.  Indeed,  the  thought  came  to  me  that  the 
dignity  of  the  effect  was  startlingly  unlike  the 
office  of  any  first-rate  book  publishing  house  I 
know;  where  you  generally  see  something  like 
the  originals  of  Harrison  Fisher  illustrations 
framed  on  the  walls.  Above  the  landing  at  a 
turn  of  the  stairs  before  me  hung  a  huge  canvas : 
a  team  of  oxen  mounting  a  swell  of  half -tilled 
ground;  the  admirable  painting  of  the  thing  sug 
gesting  the  influence  of  the  school  of  Theodore 
Rousseau.  Near  me  on  the  bench  where  I  sat 
was  another  waiting:  a  very  much  "dolled  up" 
child,  who  was  what  some  might  call  a  "fierce 
blood." 

Out  on  the  "lot"  I  walked  across  a  public 
square  in  Petrograd,  which  by  a  few  alterations 
had  been  converted  from  somewhere  in  Berlin; 
through  a  street  of  New  York's  East-side,  which 
had  formerly  done  duty  as  a  scene  in  White- 
chapel,  and  later  on  would  be  something  else 
again;  along  the  main  highway  of  Charlestown 
in  1860,  which  was  but  a  few  feet  from  a  hand- 
[258] 


I  BECOME  A  MOVIE  "DIRECTOR" 

some  view  of  Constantinople   (all  these  things 
without  any  backs  to  them),  and  so  on. 

A  new  wrinkle  in  the  matter  of  "shooting"  the 
"sets"  greatly  took  my  fancy.  This  is  the  prac 
tice  (now,  I  believe,  introduced  generally)  of 
having  music  played  while  the  actors  perform 
before  the  camera.  The  effect  is  most  entertain 
ing,  I  think,  in  the  small  sets  on  the  "dark  stage" 
—that  is  the  little  domestic  scenes  taken  indoors. 
I  remember  one  in  particular  with  much  enter 
tainment:  A  figure  got  up  to  look  like  a  gen 
tleman — dressing-gown,  spats,  monocle — is  seat 
ed  by  a  little  table  on  which  is  his  morning's  mail. 
Somebody  cries:  "All  set?"  Somebody  sings 
out  in  reply:  "All  set!"  Somebody  barks: 
"Shoot!"  The  orchestra  strikes  up;  the  gentle 
man  flourishes  an  ivory  paper-cutter — and  you 
have  never  seen  such  spirited  mail-opening  in 
your  life.  In  comes  some  sort  of  an  attendant. 
The  gentleman  looks  up  at  him,  and  (simulat 
ing  vivacious  speech)  works  his  jaws  at  him  to 
the  tune  of  the  music.  The  attendant  (to  the 
tune  of  the  music)  grins  down  at  the  gentleman 
in  reply;  then  sprays  his  mouth,  with  much  live 
liness.  Suddenly  music  stops — all  over — and  the 
life  seems  to  go  out  of  the  world. 

[259] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

Of  a  very  interesting  thing  I  heard:  an  in 
terior  representing  St.  Patrick's  Cathedral  was 
required.  So  they  built  an  interior  of  the  cathe 
dral,  at  least  an  interior  of  one  corner  of  it,  sculp 
ture  and  all.  Prominent  in  the  scene  a  very  large 
figure  of  Christ — or  rather?  half  a  figure  of 
Christ ;  the  side  away  from  the  camera  being 
open  and  exposing  the  lathe  and  plaster  con 
struction  within.  Coming  by  chance  one  day  at 
lunch  hour  into  this  "cathedral,"  Mr.  Miranda 
saw  a  workman  on  his  knees,  head  bowed,  before 
the  gigantic  figure.  It  was  a  carpenter  praying 
before  the  half  of  an  effigy  he  had  helped  to  build. 

To  the  lunch  room  on  the  lot,  common  to  all; 
where  fifteen  thousand  a  year  sits  down  with 
fifteen  a  week.  And  where  (each  in  his  or  her 
make-up)  the  Grande  Dame,  with  powdered 
hair,  sits  t&te-a-tete  with  the  old  bum  in  tatters. 
Here  I  ran  into  Clayton  Hamilton,  looking  more 
subdued  than  I  had  ever  seen  him  before.  He  had 
but  very  recently  arrived,  and  was  docilely  sub 
mitting  himself  (as  he  put  it,  in  the  "primary 
class")  to  instruction  in  the  "picture  game." 

Back  with  Miranda  to  his  office.  A  slot  is  cut 
in  the  face  of  his  work-table,  through  which 
gleams  a  bright  light  below.  The  film,  wound 
[260] 


I  BECOME  A  MOVIE  "DIRECTOR" 

on  reels  at  either  side,  is  made  to  pass  over  this 
slot  for  his  minute  inspection — for  his  "editing," 
that  is;  which  is  the  process  of  rearranging  the 
order  of  scenes  to  a  more  effective  presentation 
of  the  story;  or  of  "cutting"  so  many  feet,  and 
then  "joining  up"  smoothly  the  severed  parts. 

Was  telling  me,  Tom,  with  much  gusto,  of  an 
amusing  "Edgar"  story  by  Tarkington  now 
being  filmed.  Little  darky  plays  Hamlet.  To 
the  question,  "Who's  you?"  he  replies,  "I's  yo' 
pappie's  ghost."  "When,"  I  asked,  "did  you  get 
the  'script'  of  this?"  "About  two  months  ago," 
he  said.  Well,  I  declare!  And  so  that's  how 
Tarkington  came  to  have  that  great  "Hamlet" 
bug  at  just  about  that  time  when  I  saw  him  in 
Indianapolis!  "Why  don't  the  Prince  kill  the 
King,"  and  so  on.  Was  working  on  this  nigger 
version  of  the  play. 

In  San  Francisco  I  had  the  honor  one  time  of 
being  mistaken  for  a  "cattleman."  At  Culver 
City  I  met,  on  one  occasion,  with  even  greater 
esteem.  It  was  in  one  of  the  "dark  rooms" 
where  the  films  wound  on  tall  frames  are 
"dipped"  into  long,  narrow  vats  of  developing 
liquid.  A  very  feeble  red  light  had  been  turned 
on  for  my  benefit.  I  heard  a  voice  in  my  ear: 

[261] 


MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES 

"Didn't  I  see  you  the  other  night  at  the  Alexan 
dria?"  I  turned  and  made  out  in  the  faint  glow 
a  horribly  besmirched  boy  garbed  in  a  weirdly- 
stained  undershirt.  "Probably,"  I  replied;  "I'm 
stopping  there."  "Oh!  I  know,"  he  said;  "you 
are  a  director." 

That  night  in  the  lobby  of  the  hotel  I  was 
listening  to  the  conversation  around  me:  "Well, 
I  don't  know,  they  'cut'  more  stuff  in  New 
York";  and  so  on.  I  became  conscious  that  a 
very,  an  exceedingly  fashionable-looking  youth 
seated  on  a  divan  not  far  away  was  eyeing  me. 
Against  each  of  his  arms  reclined  a  very  dash 
ing-looking  miss,  a  very  modish-looking  miss, 
indeed.  He  disengaged  himself,  came  over  to 
me  and  introduced  himself.  "Don't  you  remem 
ber?  I  met  you  out  on  the  lot  to-day,"  he  said. 
He  was  a  generous,  an  open-handed  youth.  He 
offered  to  divide  his  ladies  with  me.  "Let's  go 
somewhere,  the  four  of  us,"  he  said,  "and  jazz." 
I  declined,  abashed;  I  did  not  feel  myself  suffi 
ciently  smart  for  such  society. 

******* 

Then  the  goodly  Odysseus  of  the  hardy  heart 
turned  his  face  toward  Ithaca — home. 

******* 

[262] 


I  BECOME  A  MOVIE  "DIRECTOR" 

As  I  was  checking  out  of  the  hotel  I  caught 
a  letter,  from  one  Marjorie.  It  began: 

You're  writing  a  new  book,  I  hear.  "Men 
and  Books  and  Cities,"  or  something  of  the  sort. 
It  sounds  unreal,  reflections  of  reflections  of 
reality.  Just  the  sort  of  thing  every  one's  ex- 
pecting  you  to  write.  Good  stuff,  I  doubt  not. 
But  I  had  you  down  for  something  really  crea 
tive  this  time,  an  attempt  to  thrust  through  to 
life  itself. 

Quite  so!    Quite  so! 
The  letter  continued : 

I  often  wonder  about  you  and  how  you  are 
getting  on.  And  where  it  will  all  end  for  you. 
I've  made  up  several  ends  for  you;  but  somehow 
they  aren't  true — aren't  inherent  in  the  case  as 
true  things  must  be. 

My  "end"?  I'm  sure  I  haven't  the  least  idea 
about  it.  Meanwhile  there  is 

"Laughter  and  the  love  of  friends." 


[263] 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN     INITIAL     FINE     OF     25     CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


SEP 


1** 


1933 


27  1933 
DEC    3  i934 


)CT  31  1935 


JUN  29  1947 


1. 1)  -JI--JO//M;,';;-' 


673482 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


